


Matt in Progress

by Katbelle



Series: Future Imperfect [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Companion Piece, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Families of Choice, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Attempted Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mental Health Issues, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-09-17
Packaged: 2018-04-10 09:07:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4386008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katbelle/pseuds/Katbelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt should know better than to accept anything that Danny Rand gives him, or to believe anything that Stephen Strange tells him. One of them had to have been wrong, because things like this don't just happen to people like him. People like him don't get to have their wishes fulfilled. They don't get their hearts' desires. They don't get second chances.</p><p>And yet here the universe was, throwing his second chance at him, dressed in a tuxedo and a <em>bowtie</em> of all things.</p><p>Matt doesn't know what to do with it.</p><p>[The Matt's POV companion piece to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4285893">All Our Yesteryears</a>.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is Matt's POV of the events of [All Our Yesteryears](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4285893). This will be chaptered and updated as writing progresses, hopefully it won't end up such a monster as the primary fic.
> 
> For anyone afraid of this being nothing but crippling angst - it's not. Matt's over the crippling angst depression phase of his life, he's in a good place now. He has a great support system and that'll show. Some of the scenes in this fic you might recognise, some are outtakes, a lot will be brand new material.

**Matt in Progress**

**1.**

No one yells ‘surprise!’ — they all know it’s impossible to surprise him, he can hear all their heartbeats from the ground floor — there is no confetti being thrown around and at him — they all also know that it confuses his senses and he hates it — and yet they still manage to take him off guard.

He has to drop his briefcase to catch an arrow that Clint Barton sends — throws? — his way. The arrow makes a beeping sound and explodes, unfurling a little flag. So it’s one of his distraction/diversion arrows. He’s so busy with the arrow and still somewhat reeling from the loud beep that erupted next to his ear that he doesn’t notice when someone sneaks up behind him, throws their hands over his face and covers his eyes shut, pressing his glasses into the bridge of his nose.

“Guess who?” Kirsten breathes into his ear.

Matt grins. “Counselor McDuffie,” he says. He drops Clint’s arrow and tugs at Kirsten’s wrist, succeeds in prying her hands away from his face — doesn’t manage to stop her from taking his glasses away, though — and takes a step to the side so that they are standing side by side. “This is a surprise.”

“You’re a shit liar, Counselor,” she shoots back. “But we appreciate the effort.”

That’s the moment the other twelve people in the room decide to yell ‘SURPRISE!’. Someone — Danny, he thinks, but it might be Scott too — kicks his briefcase away and into a corner of the hall. Normally he would frown, he likes that bag, but now there are people all around him, bumping his shoulders, bumping his fist, Skye is hugging him tightly and jumping in place with her arms around his neck.

Clint hits him in the back, between shoulder blades, and Matt almost falls down, overbalanced by Skye and further pushed by him. “Happy 35th,” Clint says and Matt can hear the grin in his voice, “I hope you liked my arrow. Kate and I had it custom made for you, it has a secret message in Braille.”

“I noticed,” Matt tells him. He’s pretty sure that Claire had some input in the designing of that message, because it says ‘happy bday dumpster prince’. It’s actually pretty scary just how well Clint and Claire were getting on ever since they met at the wedding.

“At least tell me that you didn’t expect this back at the office,” Karen asks as she links his arm with hers and leads him to the kitchen. “Keeping secrets from you is impossible, but please tell me you weren’t expecting _this_.”

“I wasn’t expecting _this_ ,” Matt tells her, truthfully even. He knew she was planning something. He knew that she and Kirsten and Marci were planning something, and he knew that she’s been spending a lot of time on the phone when he wasn’t at the office to overhear her. He had a vague feeling that it had something to do with his upcoming birthday, but still. This wasn’t what he was expecting.

“Liar, liar,” Marci says when she makes the grab for his other arm. “You were at least suspecting. Karen’s the least sneaky person I know.”

“I might have suspected something, but I didn’t _know_.”

“But I bet you weren’t expecting _this_ ,” Kirsten says when they enter the kitchen. She opens the fridge and takes out a cake, and Matt feels his mouth water. Oh. _Oh._ Green tea and lemon cheesecake with white chocolate topping. 

“That bakery closed. How on earth did you get this?”

“Jess,” Kirsten tells him.

The Jess in question walks up behind him and gives him a hug. “I know someone who knows someone who lives next to that baker of yours. We placed a special order.”

Matt sincerely hopes that this ‘special order’ did not involve name-dropping the Defenders (not his idea), Heroes for Hire (even less of his idea) or — God forbid — the Avengers (this one at least he can blame on Tony Stark).

“Point being, we _got it_.” Kirsten places the cake on the cake stand and then proudly displays it on the island in the middle of their kitchen. Back in the living room, Scott whistles softly when he notices it, and Skye’s stomach grumbles.

“Such a hard-fought for an amazing cake deserves equally amazing treatment.” Danny Rand walks into the kitchen shoulder to shoulder with Luke, closely followed by Stephen Strange. Danny reaches into his pocket and takes out a small rectangular box, smelling faintly of scented oils and leather. He opens the box and takes out two long candles, definitely not the kind one usually puts on birthday cakes. “These are magical candles,” he says loudly in a serious and dignified voice. “My sensei Lei-Kung has given them to me upon my spiritual rebirth in K’un-Lun. Now I am gifting them to you, Matthew Murdock, but I warn you: beware of their power!”

 _Truth_ , say Matt’s senses, which for some reason tend to malfunction around Danny. _Troll_ , says Matt’s common sense.

Next to Danny, Luke tries not to laugh, masks it as a cough instead. _Utter troll_ , Matt corrects himself.

“He’s kidding, right?” he leans in and asks Stephen nevertheless. 

Danny often spins wild and mysterious tales about his origins and upbringing and training. What Matt has heard in the four years that he’s known Danny can be summed up as: a) CEO of Rand Industries and rich (true), b) martial arts specialist (also true), c) father killed by business partner on a trip to Tibet (sounds improbable, but also, surprisingly, true), d) spent some time in the city of K’un-Lun (true and confirmed independently by witnesses) whose e) door only appear on Earth every ten years (false) and where f) Danny received his powers (debatable) after g) killing a dragon and squeezing its heart (bullshit of such epic proportions that Matt cannot believe Danny thinks someone might _believe him_ , and they all know Stephen Strange).

Sometimes it takes time to sift through Danny’s bullshit and trolling.

“I’m fairly certain of that,” Stephen tells him. “Magical candles are not the most sensible object to possess, and on top of that, why would he give them away if they indeed _were_ magical?”

That’s also an answer that Matt can accept. To be honest, he was waiting for something closer to “magic candles are dumb”, but this is Stephen, after all. 

“What kind of magic can they perform?” asks Wanda. She’s standing on tiptoe behind Luke and peeks curiously at the candles still in Danny’s grasp.

“They grant the wish of the person who blows them,” Danny explains.

“Isn’t that what all birthday candles are supposed to do?” Marci sneers. She doesn’t like Danny ever since their week-long attempts at dating two years prior ended in an epic disaster.

“Well, yes,” Danny admits, “but these are _magical_ candles. From _K’un-Lun_.”

Kirsten takes the candles from him. “Magical or not,” she says, “we need to light _something_.” She sticks the two candles into Matt’s cake and lights them, turns the cake stand around and closer to Matt. “Time for a wish.”

“I have nothing to wish for,” Matt says, a bit helplessly. There’s not a single thing that comes to his mind. He has everything he could ever dream of, he has Kirsten and Jack, he has a practice that he runs with Marci — and he’s damn glad that he is, Marci is scary competent and great at what they do — he has Karen, he has his friends and occasional teammates. He’s _happy_ , and that in itself is more than enough.

“Everyone has something that they wish for,” Wanda says quietly.

_I wish Foggy were here._

“Not me,” he says out loud instead, which earns him laughs from Luke and Skye. “Guess I’ve reached the pinnacle of life completion.”

“Aw, come on, Matty,” Skye urges him. “At least wish for world peace so that we can all get some time off.”

“Shut up, Johnson, don’t give him ideas” Clint snaps. “I don’t fancy unemployment.”

Another round of laughter. Matt feels the corners of his own mouth tug upward.

“It doesn’t matter what you wish for,” Kirsten whispers into his ear as she embraces him from behind, “it’s just a piece of coloured wax.”

Matt covers her hands with his and bends towards the cake. He closes his eyes and tries not to think of anything, and blows the small flame out.

 

**2.**

The next day is Saturday, and Kirsten finds him and Jack by the kitchen table, munching the cake leftovers for breakfast. She shakes her head fondly and opens the fridge, takes out a bottle of milk, then two glasses from the overhead cupboard, and pours a glass for each of them. She puts them on the table next to their plates and then kisses each of their heads.

“Thank you, Mummy.”

“Thanks, honey.”

“Uh-huh.” Kirsten moves back towards the counters and the coffee machine, makes a latte for herself. She’s not as good at it as Father Lantom is, though. “I know what you wished for.”

The fork that Matt’s holding stops mid-journey from the plate to his mouth. Jack’s head moves between his parents.

“I didn’t wish for anything,” Matt tells her. It’s true enough. He tried very hard not to think of anything while blowing out the candles, on the slight off-chance that the candles were one of those few things Danny Rand didn’t make up and were indeed magical and truly granted wishes.

“Uh-huh,” Kirsten hums again. “Maybe not. But you wanted to.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did. You made that face.” Matt raises a brow in a silent question. Kirsten sighs. “You don’t know which face, but I do. I know that face. It’s the half-conflicted, half-guilty face that you make when you think about something you think you _shouldn’t_ be thinking about.”

“That’s a lot of thinking.”

“It is,” Kirsten agrees. “You make that face quite a lot, but yesterday there was the added bonus of some longing that I’ve detected there, and _that_ I see on you less often, but exclusively when you’re thinking or we’re talking about--“

“Please don’t say that,” Matt asks.

“--Foggy.” Matt grimaces. “There, you’re making that face again.”

“Can you drop this?”

Kirsten raises her hands in a peaceful gesture. It’s her ‘fine, chill’ gesture that she uses on her father a lot. Matt’s not happy that now she deems it appropriate to use on him. “Sure I can,” she says. “But I’m not the one with unresolved feelings who should and _doesn’t_ talk about it.”

Matt puts down his fork and sighs. His now free right hand travels to his face to rub over his eyes tiredly. “Even if I did--wish--that,” he says, “it wouldn’t have mattered. He--he was hurt, because of me. He was hurt _too much_ because of me. Even if by some miracle he was willing to put that aside for a brief civilized conversation, he’d never forgive me enough to try and be friends again.”

“There exists a wide range of interactions and different stages of relationships between the ‘complete strangers’ and ‘friends’ phases, baby.”

“I wouldn’t want anything less, though.” Matt sighs. “And that’s not something he’d want. So can we--please?”

“Fine.” Kirsten gulps down all of her coffee in one go and puts the mug in the sink. “It’s a lovely day today, I thought maybe we could take Jack to the beach?”

“Can Nate go with us?” Jack asks.

“Sure, Jackie.” Matt smiles at his son. “I’ll call Mr. Barton and we’ll see what we can do.”

 

**3.**

“I’ll kick him in the face if he ever shows up in New York again.”

Matt sighs and stretches on the bed. It’s been a wonderful day that they have indeed spent at the beach in the company of Nate Barton and Clint’s Pizza Dog. The kids went swimming with Kirsten, then Matt helped them build a sand replica of Stark Tower. When Laura Barton came to pick up her youngest in the evening, Matt had to hand her a sleeping six-year-old. The less fortunate side-effect of this trip was Jack’s sudden desire to get a dog for his fifth birthday.

It was a great day, overall, and Matt allowed himself to think that Kirsten did drop the subject. He allowed himself to forget that Kirsten McDuffie was incapable of dropping something she thought required her attention; for some reason, her husband’s ancient history infatuation with his _former_ best friend qualified as that.

“Kirsten...” Matt says tiredly.

“What?” Kirsten places an open-mouthed kiss in the middle of his chest, right over his heart. “I will.”

“He doesn’t deserve that,” Matt tells her and Kirsten snorts. “He did nothing to deserve that.”

“He hurt you too,” she says quietly and slowly, the way she often explained things to Jack. Patiently, so that he’d understand and believe her.

“That’s different.”

She presses her cheek to his breastbone. “Oh, _Matt_ ,” she sighs.

 

**4.**

Karen knocks on his door — that’s how he knows it’s serious, she never does that when it’s business as usual, he doesn’t even need to hear her heart beating anxiously against her ribs, quick tap-tap-tap of a person consumed by nerves — and enters his office. She’s rubbing her hands when she stands in front of his desk.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” she asks.

Matt points a chair opposite him. “You can always talk to me, Karen,” he reminds her gently. “Would you like me to close--“

“No, it’s fine, the door can stay open.” Karen sits down in the chair — or rather falls into it with a sigh, like a deflated balloon. She fixes her gaze on the floor and refuses to look at Matt, and he suddenly feels a lump form in his throat. Oh God, oh God...

“What is it, Karen?” he asks and tires to appear calm. He’s anything but on the inside. Something bad has happened. Something very bad must have happened to make Karen act like this. Kirsten’s here, in her office, but Marci is in the court. Jack’s at school. God, no, no no no...

“Daisy Johnson called me,” Karen starts and Matt feels his stomach drop. If Skye’s involved it must be very, very bad. Avengers-level bad if SHIELD thought it prudent to get involved. “She--“

Karen swallows loudly. Matt reaches out across his desk and offers his hand. She takes it and squeezes gratefully. “You can tell me anything, Karen.”

She nods. “Daisy Johnson called me,” she says again, “and told me that she heard back from her Wakandan contact. I got in.”

Matt frowns. Shakes his head. It takes him a moment to understand what Karen is saying. She’s not telling him that something awful has happened. No one he knows and loves has been kidnapped and tortured, no one has died. There are no aliens or murderous robots around. Karen is simply telling him that she got in — in where? — that Skye called her with the news, that a Wakandan contact was involved... 

Matt sucks in a breath when he connects Karen’s information with a memory of a conversation he and Karen had with Skye some four months ago. Karen was telling Skye about her idea for the PhD thesis. Skye has offered to help with the research. “The ICC,” he says and Karen nods. Matt feels as if a stone has just been lifted off his chest. “You got that internship.”

“I did,” she says.

“Karen, that’s _amazing_.”

She shakes her head at that. “I don’t know.” She squeezes his hand again. “I was recommended by SHIELD, what if they don’t actually want me? What if I make an embarrassment out of myself? It was a stupid idea in the first place, I’ll call Daisy and--“

“ _Karen_.” His take-no-shit tone catches her by surprise. “You are a brilliant woman who wants to conduct research in a field that’s still developing. You _deserve_ to go there, SHIELD recommendation or not.”

“It’s at least six months, Matt.”

“Take the rest of today off,” Matt tells her with a giddy smile. “Go home, start packing. You’re going to the Hague for half a year, Karen Page. And don’t worry about us, we’ll manage. Somehow. Marci will see to that.”

Karen laughs. “You’d all die here without Marci and me.” Matt nods his head ‘yes’, because duh. “Thanks, Matt.”

She gets up. He gets up too, and moves around the desk to embrace her. They hug tightly and Matt can feel the tension leave Karen’s shoulders, feels them begin to shake with happy anticipation.

“Go chase your dream,” he whispers into her hair. “Go chase your dream, Karen Page.”

“I’ll come back,” she whispers back. “I _promise_ I’ll come back to you.”

He believes her.

 

**5.**

Karen is packed come Thursday. She and Kirsten set up Skype on Karen’s new laptop, and on Friday evening Kirsten drives the four of them — sans Marci, who claims to have already said her goodbyes and see-you-soons at the office, but who in fact just doesn’t want to sniffle in public — to the airport. Karen hugs first Kirsten, then Matt — significantly longer, because she’s been his friend for longer too — and then spends a quarter of an hour hugging and kissing every inch available of Jack, who doesn’t even try to squirm out of her embrace. He knows that he won’t see his godmother for long months.

“I’ll call you every Sunday.” A kiss to Jack’s left cheek. “And you’ll tell me how your week was.” A kiss to the right cheek. “How your swimming lessons are going.” A kiss to the forehead. “If Jack Power still tries to steal your glitter.” A kiss to the nose. “If your mum and dad are behaving well.” A kiss to the top of Jack’s head. “Promise.”

“Okay, Aunt Karen.” Jack throws his arms around Karen’s neck and clings to her. “Do you have to go...? You’re my favourite aunt!”

“Oh, pumpkin,” Karen says. “I wish I could study closer to home, but I can’t. I have to travel. It’s very important and will make me better at what I do. Just the way you have to study very hard to work with dinosaurs.”

“Okay,” Jack sighs. He bites down on his lip as he ponders something. “Do they have dinosaurs in the Hague, Aunt Karen?”

“You know what, they just might!” Karen lifts him up and squeezes him tight. “I’ll check it for you. And I promise I’ll bring you awesome presents when I come back. Right in time for your birthday, no less!”

She hands Jack over to Matt, and takes her suitcase in hand. Looks at the small family seeing her off. “I mean it, I’ll call every Sunday,” she promises. “I love you all. Jack, be careful at pre-school, kids that steal your glitter aren’t trustworthy. Kirsten, take care of Matt, don’t let him fall into too many dumpsters.”

“Hey,” Matt protests, because yeah, _hey_ , not fair. “That hasn’t happened in more than two years, and isn’t funny at all.”

“I’ll make sure he stays vertical,” Kirsten laughs.

Karen sends them kisses and waves all the way through security. Eventually though she disappears from sight and is gone from their lives for the time being.

 

**6.**

“This place is worse than prison,” Karen tells him a week later, on a Sunday, when she calls with her weekly update. “ _Worse_ , Matt. The fence is made of concrete and is some four meters high, the building itself is super ugly and generally blergh, it’s located outside of the city centre and close to the railway track.”

“So it’s loud there?”

“Surprisingly, no,” Karen admits. “But I think it’s the trains that are quiet, not the building that keeps the noise out.”

“So,” Matt asks, “are you telling me you’re _not_ happy about being there?”

“ _God no_ ,” Karen laughs. “I love it so far. Haven’t done a lot yet, because right now they have a break in the hearings sessions, but they’re supposed to resume next week. First up are the cases relating to human experimentation in Sokovia. Which is relevant to my interests, because superhuman element.”

“I wonder if Wanda knows.”

“You should ask her.” Karen hums. “You know, she could be considered a witness in some of those cases. You should really talk to her about that.” Skype pings and Matt jumps in his chair, not having expected that. “Sorry. I’ve sent a picture of the building, for Kirsten.”

“That’s one ugly building,” Kirsten says. She enters the study, pushes a chair closer and sits down next to Matt. She gives him a small kiss on the cheek, then waves at Karen. “You look happy.”

Karen laughs. “I am! Matt will fill you in with as to the details. Now tell me, how are things back home?”

“Horrible,” Matt says, dead serious. “We can’t find anything at the office. Today I found Marci crying in the kitchenette, because she can’t operate that state-of-art coffee machine that we have. We’ve been buying coffee at Starbucks for the past three days, because you’re the only one who can turn that on.”

“It’s not that difficult,” Karen assures them.

“No,” Kirsten shakes her head, “it’s witchcraft.” Karen giggles. “By the way: I have news.”

“Oh?”

“I’m curious myself,” Matt says.

Kirsten laughs. “Remember how almost eight months ago my dad decided to open an East Coast office in New York?” Matt and Karen both nod. It was difficult to forget, Wendell’s boasting and grand plans that so far were utterly fruitless. “They open up next week. And, wait for this: the new head of legal is going to be the permanent resident.”

“ _No_ ,” Karen says, and Matt is able to hear her grin in her tone. “Poor guy. Or girl. I wonder what sins they’ve committed to deserve living in the same city as Matt.”

“Hey!” Matt presses a hand to his chest, feigning being wounded. “It’s not my fault they all quit!”

“It kind of is your fault,” Kirsten says. “You’ve made them all cry at least once. The one before Blake resigned after a week because you happened to run a case against dad at the time she was promoted. Blake survived as long as he did because he refused to meet you in person. I’m pretty sure Karen is right and you are some sort of a cosmic punishment for past misdeeds.”

“I feel bad for them already,” Karen adds. “I give them a month. After that, Matt will destroy their will to live on the East Coast.”

Matt grins too. “Why do you assume they’ll run screaming?” he asks. “Maybe they’ll turn out to be a genuinely nice person and we’ll all become friends?”

“I sincerely doubt it,” Kirsten says and — over in the Hague and six hours into the future — Karen snickers, “but it’s nice that at least you’re hopeful.”

 

**7.**

Matt drops a complete and closed file onto Karen’s desk. The pile of documents to file away is high enough to topple the moment someone leaves a window open and there’s a whiff of wind. They should probably get a temp to fill Karen’s position, at least until Karen gets back in half a year. She’ll be back, Matt reminds himself. She promised.

He sticks his head into Marci’s office. “Kirsten’s not here?”

“Nope,” Marci says, not even bothering to look up from the file she’s reviewing. It looks like something that came out of Rand Industires. That would explain the air of discontent around her.

“Court?”

“I don’t think so.” Now Marci does look up, and Matt has a vague impression that she’s frowning at him. Damn. They’ve been friends and work spouses for almost six years now, and yet he still didn’t know and couldn’t anticipate or imagine her expressions. She was the only one he had trouble reading like this. “Doesn’t the whelp’s swimming class end in, like, half an hours or so?”

Matt checks his watch. Huh. “You might be right.” He puts his hand into the pocket of his trousers and fishes out his phone. “I’ll call her.”

“You do that,” Marci says. “You could ask her where’s the Alvarez statement, while you’re at it.”

Matt tells his phone to dial Kirsten and waits for her to pick up, which she does after the fourth ring. “Hi, honey,” he greets her warmly.

“Hi, baby,” she greets him back. He can hear the faint buzz of the city in the background, of car horns and some vague and muffled cursing. She must be driving.

“Going to get Jack?”

“Yeah, I’m going to pick him up.”

“Oh, alright. I wasn’t aware it was so late already.” He scratches his neck. “Do you know where the Alvarez statement is, by any chance?”

“Uh-huh,” Kirsten hums. “It should be with the Ramirez files.”

“It’s not there,” Matt tells her. “I’ve checked.”

“Well, then I don’t know. Ask Em, she’s the only one who keeps your life in reasonable reigns,” Kirsten says. The ‘now that Karen’s gone’ is implied.

“Marci doesn’t know either,” Matt sighs. “She’s the one who told me to ask you. Apparently you’re the one who knows where things are around here. Huh.” He taps his chin. “Maybe it got stuck with some of the Boruc case files and we left it at court yesterday? Are you anywhere near there? Could you perhaps pop in and check?”

“No, I’m not,” Kirsten cuts him off. He hears her laugh softly. “I’m actually taking your new competition home right now.”

Oh. _Oh._ Right, now that she mentions it, Matt remembers. Wendell did call her yesterday and asked to spare a moment to show his new head of legal to the guy’s new company apartment. A penthouse close to the Central Park, Matt was told.

“What is he like?” he asks, in his curiosity completely forgetting about the Alvarez statement. “Old? Bald? Boring as fuck? No, wait. Your dad loves him, so I bet he’s a pretentious douchebag with a fake Oxford accent.”

“Nah, he’s nice,” Kirsten says and she must be smiling, because her voice gets warmer. “Much better than Blake was.”

“You’ll have to tell me _everything_ back at home,” Matt breathes into the phone.

Kirsten giggles. “Yes, okay.”

“Honey, I mean it. _Everything_. We can invite Marci and you’ll tell us all his secrets, all the sordid details about the man you father _likes_.”

“Okay, alright.” He imagines Kirsten shake her head. “Oh, and sweetie?”

“Mhm?”

“If you see Luke tonight, ask him if he still wants us to take Danielle over the weekend.”

“He probably does, but I’ll ask him. He and Jess want to have a weekend to themselves. You know how it is.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I love you,” Matt tells her, “most in the world.”

“Absolutely not,” Kirsten shoots back, “I love you more, dumbass. See you at home.”

She hangs up. Matt pockets his phone and turns back towards Marci, to tell her that Kirsten doesn’t know where the Alvarez statement is and that they’ll have to call Karen in the evening and beg for her help, _again_ , and that come evening, Kirsten will have some information about Wendell’s new unfortunate employee.

But before he can phrase any of that, Marci makes a gagging sound. “The next time you decide to be so disgustingly sweet with your wife,” she tells him, and he knows she isn’t serious and means it as friendly mockery and banter, because there’s an undercurrent of fond laugh deep in her voice, “please go lock yourself in your office, away from the earshot of normal people.”

“That’s very mean, Stahl.”

She laughs. “I live to please, Murdock.”


	2. Chapter 2

**8.**

Kirsten tells him that Karen flails her hands around wildly and excitedly as she describes the most recent changes to her apartment. “ _Shitton_ of flowers, I tell you, I’m starting to trip over them when I get inside, but I can’t help myself, the flowers in the Netherlands are just so damn gorgeous. Oh, and there’s a Wakandan flag on the wall now, it’s right behind me, Kirsten can see it.”

“I can,” Kirsten confirms wryly.

“I got it from T’Shan, he’s the Wakandan ambassador to the UN, he stopped by the court on Thursday to see how the investigation against Klaw is going on. He took me to dinner and on Friday I got a package with the flag and some Wakandan delicacies delivered to my desk, it was so cool.” Karen runs out of breath and has to stop herself. One breath, two, and she carries on, “and yesterday I went shopping with my fellow intern, Eva. We bought a giant pile of orange clothes, she tells me that everyone over here dresses up in orange on national holidays. I don’t get why, it’s not a national colour or anything--“

“The royal family is the House of Orange,” Matt says, “it’s their colour. And could you go back to the part where the Wakandan UN ambassador took you out on a date?”

“It wasn’t a date!” Karen laughs. “It was half a date at best, he had an early flight to catch.”

“You go, Karen!” Kirsten laughs too. “Fishing for a member of the royal family, fancy yourself a pretty crown?”

“For the record, I didn’t realise he’s related to T’Challa until _after_ the date. I had to google him, shame on me.” Karen sighs. “There might be something there, I might be delusional, we’ll see. T’Shan said that he’d love to show me around Geneva and that I should come and visit him the next time he’s there, and I think I’m going to take him up on that offer.”

Matt snorts. “Marci will _die_ when you tell her.”

“Matt, my lovely cinnamon bun, your lack of faith wounds me,” Karen says in a mockingly wounded tone. “I’ve _already_ told Marci, I called her the moment I came back home after the date. She went green with envy and immediately began searching trips to book for a European holiday.”

“Oh, Marci, God bless her mean soul.”

“Anyway, I just waved my hand in a very dismissive manner, thus clearly indicating my desire to change the subject. Spill, Murdocks: what is Wendell’s new disaster like?”

“Why do you want to talk about him, he’s way less important and interesting than you dating actual royalty.”

“And didn’t Marci already relay the most interesting bits to you?” Kirsten adds.

“She did, but I want to hear your version too. Marci’s impression of your impression boils down to ‘Matt will make him cry in a week and he’ll be on the plane back to San Fran in two’.”

“Well,” Kirsten says, “personally, I’d give him a month.” Karen giggles. “He’s actually a really nice person, you know? Looks competent, and is a native New Yorker, which is a plus. The inside-office gossip mill told me that he used to be married to Kara Kildare, the vice-president of the West Coast branch, and that dad scooped him for the New York office after the divorce. He’s over forty — that or he’s a thirty-something that just looks as if life hated him in particular —and I think he lacks a sense of humour. But a good guy otherwise.”

“In short, he’s exactly the kind of person that Wendell would love,” Matt sums it up.

Kirsten turns in her seat to look at him and tilts her head back, which usually means that she’s arching a brow at him in her ‘you’re full of shit’ manner. “For some reason I got the impression that you two would get on well splendidly.”

Yeah, how about no. “Not in this universe we would not, honey.”

 

**9.**

They leave courtroom 4 proud winners, and the moment they do, the entire Ramirez clan falls upon them and divests hugs and kisses on them, thanks them for defending their grandfather. The elderly Senorita Ramirez — in her broken English — promises to bring them her famous homemade lemonade, to which Marci smiles in gives her her thanks in a perfectly accented Spanish. Soon they have to excuse themselves, though, they have a meeting booked and are needed back at the office, and they bow out of the little family celebration.

“It’s a pity you can’t see facial expressions,” Marci tells him quietly, “because Priest looked ready to murder you. He broke the pencil he was holding during your closing speech.”

“I know,” Matt replies with a grin, “I heard.”

“There were two interns at the audience, and they bolted from the room the moment the verdict was in, I’m pretty sure they’re by one of the water fountains now, telling everyone how you’ve beaten Priest. Again.”

“I doubt anyone would like to listen to that, such stories are old news by now.”

Marci chuckles and punches him in the arm. “You just wait. By this time tomorrow, the whole New York bar will be snickering behind Priest’s back once more. Perhaps we should hang out here a little longer so that you can gloat when he finally gathers the courage to leave and face his peers.”

Matt laughs. He tilts his head back and full-on laughs, throws an arm around Marci’s shoulders and jumps in place, giddy. She’s absolutely right, of course. When he gets home in the evening, Kirsten will shake her head fondly and kiss his cheek. Jen Walters will call him to congratulate him, and Maki will text him to say that he makes her wish her term of office ended sooner. Karen will be hardly surprised when she calls on Sunday.

“Come, Marce,” he says, “we should go and celebra--Marce?”

She stopped, in the middle of the crowded corridor. She’s standing half-turned, with her head cocked, and seems to be looking at something, or looking out for something. Matt frowns. As far as he’s aware, there’s nothing unusual going on, just a regular day at the courthouse, with people filing out of the courtroom, rushing in all directions, talking nervously on the phones, awaiting judgments.

“Marci?” he asks.

“For a second I thought--“ She shakes her head. “It’s nothing, just a symptom of me being overworked. I need a holiday. I’m giving myself a holiday, Murdock, effective immediately.”

“You can’t just give yourself a holiday, Marce, that’s something you have to discuss with your other partners.”

“You still owe me for last summer, when you — may I remind you — took our other partner and fucked off to the Caribbean, leaving me and Karen alone. For _a month_. So I think I’m entitled to give myself a day off.”

“Fair enough.” Matt smiles. “Meet me for drinks in the evening? At Josie’s? Danny Rand will be there.”

“You’re such an asshole, Murdock, I swear to God.” Marci throws one last glance over her shoulder and shakes her head again, as if to clear it, then follows Matt out. “But fuck, I’m feeling great today, I might actually come, if only to make him squirm.”

 

**10.**

“He did squirm,” Matt tells a laughing Karen come Sunday. “Especially because he came with his current girlfriend, Misty, and she and Marci hit it off immediately. I see trouble in Daniel’s future.”

“Yeah, you would see a lot of that.” Karen drums her fingers against something wooden, most likely not her desk, since that one is a typical non-wood IKEA thing. “While we’re on the topic of dating, T’Shan sent me flowers.”

“Even more flowers? What are you, swimming in them by now?”

“Very funny,” she mutters. “He sent them to my office, not my house. They’re absolutely beautiful, Matt, a giant bouquet, with a handwritten note. He’s going to be in Geneva next month, there’s a Human Rights Committee annual report meeting at the UN headquarters. I’ve decided to go and visit, I need to get there to interview the Commissioner for refugees anyway. It’s a two birds, one stone type of a situation.”

“Does it mean I’ll have to start calling you Her Royal Highness Princess Karen of Wakanda soon?” Matt asks and tries very hard not to laugh. “Will I have to bow every time you bring me coffee?”

“Marci’s right, you’re an asshole,” Karen says, also laughing. “First of all, you’d have to address me with the official Wakandan title, so I’d be Karen Ikomo Wakandas. Secondly, do you honestly think I’d still serve you coffee?”

“You love making coffee for us. You love our office and our amazing coffee machine, you’re the only one that speaks its language.”

“ _Please_ , Matt. I might love working for you and making you coffee, but you can _bet_ that I’d love being a princess and dedicating the rest of my life to charity work even more.”

“Karen Ikomo Wakandas.” Matt sighs. “Well, the upside is that it would definitely make Jack win all the ‘my relative is cooler than your relative’ contests from now till college, most likely.”

“True, ‘my aunt is a princess’ sounds much better than ‘my dad is Iron Man’.” She pauses. “And how is my favourite and beloved godson?” she asks eventually, voice very fond, but tinged with regret.

“Misses you like crazy. Wants to go visit you. Kirsten would take him, but there’s a possibility that he wouldn’t want to come back, so we’re not going to risk that.”

Karen chuckles. “You know, when I become the princess of Wakanda, I’ll come to steal your kid.”

“I’d sue your ass.”

“Diplomatic immunity,” Karen shoots back. “Plus, Wakanda doesn’t have an extradition treaty with the US.”

“Then I’d come to _kick_ your ass.”

“Sorry to say, but the Dora Milaje are no match for you. You’d be in so much trouble, Matt, so much trouble.”

“I know T’Challa,” Matt reminds her. Well. He did meet him, once, sort of by accident. But Tony Stark knows him and is his frenemy, and Jack is best friends with Tony Stark’s kid, so there would be a way to contact him if needed. “King of Wakanda trumps Prince of Wakanda, in your face, check and mate, booya.”

Karen sighs. “Yeah, I’ve got nothing to that.”

 

**11.**

Matt sticks his head into Marci’s office and waits patiently for her to stop typing. She does so with a sigh worthy a long-suffering partner at the end of their rope, and makes a spectacle of pushing her laptop away.

“What,” she all but barks.

“Would you like to go to Wendell’s book launch party this Sunday?”

“Yes, of course,” she answers, voice dropping with rich sarcasm. “You’ve known me for years, Matt. _Years_. Do I look like a person who’d want to waste away at your father-in-law’s boring party?”

“I don’t know,” Matt says truthfully. “I’m blind.”

She hides her face in her hands. “I must have been a very bad person in my previous life,” she moans, “to deserve _you_ in this one. What could be so awful that is punished with being stuck by your side?”

“Maybe you kicked puppies for a living,” Matt suggests. “Cute puppies. Very cute and tiny puppies.”

Marci raises her head. Her heart starts beating faster, usually indicating annoyance or extreme displeasure. Most times, Matt imagines her expression as similar to the one he remembers his grandmother wearing a lot. Brow furrowed, lips curved in an uneven thin line, teeth gritted. Karen often says that — while looking at Matt — Marci looks like she’s on _The Office_. Matt is yet to ask if his imagined expression is anything like the one Marci actually makes.

“How about I start kicking _you_ for a living?” she asks sweetly.

Matt grins. “You could have just said ‘no’, there’s no reason to get all violent, Marci. That’s unhealthy, you know.”

He ducks out of her office just in time to avoid the pen that she throws at him. She wouldn’t have hit him even if he stayed, though, he’d have caught it and they both know it. The pen hurling is just her way to make a point.

 

**12.**

_Won’t call today_ , Matt texts Karen on the Sunday morning. _Wendell’s party._

 _good luck_ , Karen texts back. _hope sth interesting happens xoxo_

_Nothing interesting ever happens._

 

**13.**

Jack tugs at his bowtie.

“Do I have to wear one?” he asks and sounds so _sad_ that Matt’s face falls. He turns his head towards Kirsten and hears her heart skip.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” she mutters. Matt’s been told that Jack makes the same sad kicked spaniel puppy face that he’s a master champion at making. And while Kirsten is immune to its charm in individual cases, she folds when faced with two identical ones at the same time. “No, sweetie, of course you don’t have to. I don’t care what Grandpa says about the dress code. You can take it off.”

“Okay, Mummy.”

Matt reaches out to untie the bowtie, and uses the opportunity to whisper in his son’s ear. “Good job, Jackie, I’ll fistbump you later when Mummy’s not looking.”

Jack presses close to him and Matt can feel his smile against his skin.

 

**14.**

Jack disappears — probably into the rooftop garden, it’s the quietest place around — the moment Wendell takes his eyes off him. He’s confused for a second, looks down and around in search of his grandson, whips his head back and forth, and Matt just smirks into his glass.

He’d slither away to the garden too, if it were prudent. But he’s the host’s son-in-law and for some reason the guests think they should talk to him.

“This is a vast improvement over last year,” Kate Bishop says when she casually strolls through the entire ballroom to stand at the far side next to him. “And it’s a million times better than Heather’s last effort.”

“Wendell couldn’t pass up on inviting your dad, could he?”

Kate shakes her head. “Are you kidding?” she asks. “An entire evening that he could spend rubbing it in my dad’s face that he got one over him? He wouldn’t be Wendell if he didn’t.”

And then Derek Bishop wouldn’t be Derek Bishop if he didn’t accept and didn’t decide to show up with his brand new, barely-out-of-high-school wife. Matt knows.

Kate smiles at him. Her cheeks go redder every time she does, and Matt can feel, can hear the blood rush to her face. It’s not a crush, her heartbeat is steady and uninterested. She doesn’t have a crush on him. She reacts to him the same way she reacts to Clint, she looks up to him and admires him as a friend and a mentor of sorts. Clint’s more of that for her, to be honest. Matt just--Matt just trains with her, sometimes. Boxing, hand-to-hand. But it’s Clint that she liker more and is closer to.

Matt is not jealous.

Nope.

“He lost Jack,” he tells her.

She laughs. “Good for Jack,” she says fondly. Yeah, good for Jack. At least he’s avoiding all of Wendell’s guests. “Do you want me to go look for him?”

“He’s hiding in the garden.”

“I figured. I’ll pretend to look for him and then I’ll attack him with tickles and bring him back inside. He’ll never see me coming.”

“Kate Bishop, you’re evil.”

She smiles wider. “Nah, just Hawkeye.”

 

**15.**

Matt maneuvers around the guests and across the ballroom, trying to resist the urge to hit the most annoying ones in the shins with his cane. He’s looking for Kirsten, steers through the crowd based on the steady tap-tap-tap of her heartbeat. He can hear it from two blocks away, and he’ll pick it out from the crowd any time. He’s not exactly sure how, one person’s heartbeat is generally like another’s like another’s. But. Kirsten’s is not. And Jack’s. Karen’s and Marci’s, if he concentrates. He could never lose them, even if he tried.

Kirsten’s standing close to a small table with two other people. One of them is Derek Bishop, he can hear him speak, so the other one must be Heather Bishop. Matt allows himself a second to feel sorry for her; she’s little more than a kid, should be in college having fun and making friends, and instead she’s the trophy wife of Kate’s father and spends her weekends being nervous at boring parties.

And oh, great, she got even more nervous now. Derek’s heartbeat picked up too, the moment someone made their way to his table. No, two someones. One Matt recognises as Wendell, he keeps talking and yup, Kate was right, he’s gloating, and the other--

No.

No, but--

Rapid heartbeat, a quick and hammering tap-tap-taptaptap that speaks of nerves and being anxious and embarrassed at the same time, wanting to disappear, like that time in their first year when he got called to answer a question in criminal law--

 _Foggy_ , Matt’s senses insist.

 _Delusion_ , Matt’s common sense counters.

“That would certainly level the field,” Matt cuts into Wendell’s conversation with Derek with what he hopes sounds like an amused comment. He’s not amused, in fact. He’s very much not amused.

Scared confused worried nervous elated happyhappy hopeful.

Yeah, maybe that.

The heartbeat of Wendell’s companion impossibly quickens further, and it almost reaches the speed it had when he found out Matt was Daredevil, when he found out Matt was lying lying lying.

He doesn’t even hear Wendell’s introduction. He could be speaking Punjabi for all Matt knows. Nothing registers, nothing at all.

 _Foggy_ , Matt’s senses say triumphantly. _Foggy Foggy Foggy_.

 _Foggy_ , Matt’s common sense is forced to agree.

He must have a very curious expression on his face, because Kirsten touches his arm. She smells of concern and worry. “Baby?”

“Foggy,” Matt breathes, and Kirsten stiffens next to him. Withdraws her hand. She’s suspicious, now. Matt forces on a polite smile and extends his hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”

Foggy hesitates, but takes his hand eventually. Matt freezes. That’s-- _Oh._ The skin he touches is rough, but not from manual work, it’s just scarred. The fingers are swollen, misshapen, the fractures healed badly. Middle finger, second knuckle. Ring finger, first knuckle, there’s a small jump in bone where the break was. Pinkie is just a disaster in general.

Matt didn’t know. He never--He didn’t know.

It feels like a miracle that Foggy can use his hand at all.

And he uses it, to wriggle out of Matt’s grasp the moment he can. Matt’s not surprised. He wouldn’t want to touch himself either.

He opens his mouth to say something, to Wendell, to suggest doing something in order to escape, but Wendell chooses that moment to say, “oh, excuse us, I think I can see Virginia Potts”, and disappears, taking Derek and Heather Bishop with him.

Matt swallows thickly. Starts fiddling with his cane and then _catches_ himself fiddling with his cane. He has no idea what to say. Well, not exactly, there’s a lot he wants to say, he’s spent a lot of time imagining situations in which he gets to say those things, but now that it actually happens, none of the words and carefully built phrases come to mind. It’s a blank. Literally nothing to say.

He could use a distraction, right about now. God, please, send an alien invasion. Murderous robots. A crazed psychopath. Matt will take anything, now. Let Luke call him. Hell, right this very second he’d even be happy to agree to help out Tony Stark. He’d even agree to be the getaway car driver for one of Scott’s misadventures.

Anything.

Anything?

Yeah, he’s never been that lucky.


	3. Chapter 3

**16.**

“This is a surprise,” Matt says and then immediately wants to kick himself, because that’s quite possibly the lamest thing he could have come up with. For God’s sake, Murdock, you’re a lawyer, talking is your _strength_ , you can actually out-talk Tony Stark and that has been scientifically proven by Clint and Bruce Banner. What’s the matter with you.

“Yeah,” Foggy says and he sounds so choked up. Did Matt offend him? Shit, did he sound scornful? Unhappy? Disappointed? He doesn’t think he sounded _anything_ — anything other than stunned, perhaps — but what if those were his ears playing tricks?

No, that’s not it. It’s not about him, it’s never been about him, it’s always been about Foggy. And Foggy--Foggy would sound choked up. Matt’s probably the last person he expected to see here tonight. Matt’s probably the last person Foggy wanted to see at all.

Matt takes a breath. “Foggy,” he starts, but then the much hoped-for distraction comes, or rather runs, at him and collides with his legs with a giggle.

“Daddyyy!” Jack yells and wraps his hands around Matt’s thighs. Matt finds himself divested of his cane by Kirsten; without it, with nothing else to occupy his hands with, he bends and picks Jack up. Next to him, Foggy’s heart skips a beat in tune with a soft inhale as he realizes who it is that this kid calls ‘dad’. Jack giggles again.

“Hey, Jackie,” Matt says and makes an effort to grin at his son, the very recent shock and almost-meltdown quickly pushed aside. “Heard you were hiding from Katie.”

He wonders where exactly Jack was hiding, how long it took Kate to find him, what was he doing ever since he ditched his grandfather? He hopes it was nothing potentially dangerous or lawsuit-inducing. Jack was crazy smart, even for his age; he did have friends — even some that Matt was less than thrilled about — but he liked his books, he liked solitude, he would choose quiet over play.

Matt did not force him. He encouraged sports and riding a bike and even that new goddamn diving obsession, but he didn’t force him to go outside when he’d rather stay at home. He promised himself, when Jack was born, that he would _not_ turn into his own father. It seemed to be working so far.

“I was,” Jack says quickly, out of breath, nodding his head, “but then I wasn’t, and I made a friend.” He turns his head to the side, notices Foggy and waves at him. “Hi!” he says cheerfully. Matt swallows. He made a friend. Oh. But of course. Another Murdock boy absolutely not immune to Foggy Nelson's charm. “And then Kate got a phone call,” Jack carries on, “and I bet her I could get to you before her and tell you myself, and I did, see?”

“No, but I can certainly hear,” Matt says reflexively and is rewarded with twin snickers, one from Kirsten — to be expected, she isn’t Marci, she loves making dumb blind jokes almost as much as he does — and one from Foggy, which he quickly masks as a cough. He didn’t mean to laugh. It wasn’t something they did, it wasn’t their thing anymore, they didn’t even _have_ a thing. The laugh might have been a deeply ingrained reflexive reaction that he just couldn’t get rid of. Maybe it was a bizarre attempt at being polite. But he didn’t mean to laugh. “What was Kate’s phone call about?”

Matt poses the question to Jack, but fully expects Kate to answer it. He knows she’s coming, he’s heard her several paces ago, the distinctive clink of her Louboutins against the marble floor, the swish of the tulle in the underside of her dress.

“Clint called,” Kate tells him when she stops to stand behind him as expected. Her heart is beating faster than usual, she’s nervous and excited, so whatever it is that Clint called her about, it’s urgent and — quite possibly and only in the world of Hawkeyes — fun. “There’s a situation in Midtown. They could use your help.”

They could use his help. So it’s an Avengers problem and they can’t deal with it on their lonesome. Matt wonders what kind of an awful, but very specific thing must have happened is if they decided that they wanted _him_ to come in, to make the Avengers need _him_ , of all people. A man with no real powers, not even a SHIELD training that at least made Natasha and Clint invaluable. 

“Right,” he nods. He turns his head slightly, inclines it towards Kirsten, who immediately catches his meaning and holds out her hands for Jack. When she takes him off Matt, he puts his head on her shoulder with a yawn. The corners of Matt’s mouth tug upwards. Jack’s always so energetic and _everywhere_ that it was easy to forget that he was just over four, but he _was_ , he was Matt’s adorable four-year-old who should not be asked to come to such events, should not be asked to stay up so late amongst so many strangers just for the entertainment of his grandfather. 

His smile falters. An adorable four-year-old who deserved a father who’d take him home and not disappear altogether, a father who didn’t put him in any danger every time he went out. Who didn’t take dumb risks because he couldn’t help himself.

“Kirsten...?” he starts, then trails off. He’s not sure what he wanted to say. Ask permission? Inform her that he was going to run off and help the Avengers? Inform her that he _wasn’t_ going to run off and help the Avengers after all? Apologise? No, she’d never accept that.

“If that was Tony Stark calling you know I wouldn't let you," she tells him and sounds fond. Soothing. Determined and sure. She knows it’s important, she doesn’t judge. Not for the first time — and certainly not for the last — Matt has to wonder what was it that he’d done good in his life that deserved him a woman like her. "But since Clint's my favourite Avenger,” she adds with a smile, “go. Go be a hero." She leans in and kisses Matt's cheek. "Don't get yourself killed, I'll see you at home."

Matt nods again and turns to leave. Kate’s already gone, her anxiously excited heartbeat currently located somewhere close to the middle of the ballroom. A slight hitched breath stops him. Foggy. Foggy’s here. There are so many things Matt wants to say to him, and yet the only thing that comes to mind is ‘I’m sorry’.

“Foggy...” he says. _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry for everything._ He shakes his head. It’s no use. It’s been six years, what good are his apologies now? All the sorrys that were supposed to be said, he should have said six years ago. More than he did say, because that wasn’t enough. Never enough, he could never be sorry enough and he could never make it up and he could never be forgiven, and here he was, doing the same dumb and reckless thing six years later, putting even more people in danger.

All his fault. It was all his fault and it will be all his fault.

But.

There was a problem in Midtown, people, innocent people, were in danger and he could do something about it.

He takes a breath. “It _was_ nice seeing you again,” he tells Foggy.

Foggy’s “likewise” follows him out.

He didn’t hear a lie.

 

**17.**

Clint intercepts them as they’re about to enter what smells like a warzone. “No going in until you know what you’re dealing with,” he tells them. “Thanks for showing up, Red.”

Matt rolls his eyes at the nickname, but refrains from saying anything. The last time he tried objecting — on the grounds that Wanda’s costume was equally red and it was Natasha who had red hair, not he — he was given a long and passionate lecture about sexism, objectification of female Avengers in the media and the injustice of stripper codenames.

Matt wasn’t an idiot and he wasn’t suicidal (not anymore, at least). He didn’t argue and accepted Stark-coined nickname with as much grace as he could muster. He wasn’t going to give Tony Stark the satisfaction of pissing him off.

Perhaps he'll grow to be fond of it, like he did with 'Daredevil'.

Matt follows Clint and Kate into a nearby building. A café. Or, well, it used to be a café, judging by the smell of coffee beans, before it was attacked by whatever it is the Avengers are battling tonight. In the middle of New York. Why does it always have to be New York? Perhaps Matt should consider moving. It would break his heart, leaving the city, leaving Hell’s Kitchen, leaving Marci and Karen and his friends, but perhaps he should look for somewhere safer to live, for Kirsten and Jack’s sake.

Oh, right. Like Kirsten would allow him. Like Kirsten would _agree_.

“So?” Kate asks. She has a bow in her hand, she’s ready to fight. On their way out they made a detour, stopped by the parking lot where Kate changed into her costume and took her bow and arrows from the boot of her car, while Matt searched through the rags that Kirsten kept in theirs. He wasn’t sure what was sadder, the fact that Kate brought her gear everywhere with her as if constantly expecting a fight, or that he didn’t.

“Some nutjob from Oscorp,” Clint tells them. “I don’t know what’s with that company, is being certifiably crazy a job requirement?”

“One guy?” Kate asks as she peeks out of the window. She hums, unhappy, which Matt assumes means she can’t see anything. “I can’t see anything.”

“You won’t,” Clint says, “that’s why we need Matt.”

“You know, if Kate can’t see it, I won’t be much better help.”

Clint sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, a Clint-ism that Matt knows means 'I'm surrounded by idiots'. Matt smirks. “No one can see our targets,” Clint explains tiredly. “They’re invisible. One guy, yes, but with a bunch of invisible animal-y sidekicks. At least we think they’re kind of animal-like. Only Tony’s armour detects them, he’s there guiding Steve and Nat. Rhodes is with Wanda, they’re covering the other side of the block.”

“And you need me...?”

“Because I figure,” Clint says and sounds proud of himself, “that your radar thingy sense will work as well as Tony’s tech. Like, you can’t see them, but you’ll be able to hear them, right, pinpoint where they are.”

That actually makes a lot of sense and is an example of some easily overlooked, brilliant thinking on Clint’s part. Matt’s not about to admit that. “It might work,” he says instead. “ _Might_.”

“So let’s try,” Kate announces. She gets up, takes two arrows out of her quiver, and kicks the café door open. She’s out there in an instant, and Matt hears it. A small, screeching noise, like a rat. Only deeper, as if made by a slightly larger creature.

“One on your left, ten o’clock!” he yells through the kicked down door. A swish of displaced air tells him that Kate fired. “You have to talk to her,” he turns to Clint. “She can’t just kick down doors and jump right into action, it’s dangerous. She could get hurt.”

“Good luck telling Katie-Kate anything,” Clint murmurs. “And since we’re talking about danger and getting hurt, are you _really_ going to go out there in _this_?”

Matt tugs at the flannel shirt he’s wearing. “It was this or a tuxedo,” he informs Clint, who laughs and shakes his head. “You called Kate while we were at a ball.”

“Aww, poor high-society people,” Clint jokes. 

He helps Matt up. Matt folds his cane and leaves it alongside his glasses on one of the café tables, follows Clint out and then they’re on the street, fighting back to back with Kate at their side, Matt shouting directions at them and Clint and Kate firing arrows like mad. “But how come?" Clint asks suddenly, as if they never stopped talking. "Kate’s in full tactical gear and you’re in jeans and a goddamn _plaid_.”

“I don’t carry my costume everywhere with me,” Matt snaps. “Clint, your left, seven. Kate, two on your right, three.”

"Maybe you should," Clint says. He keeps his eyes trained on Matt, doesn't even look at where he's firing and yet he still doesn't miss. "Wear it under your suits, like Superman."

"Superman wears spandex and his underwear on the outside, I doubt my body armour would work as well under a suit."

"How about an armoured suit then?" Kate asks. She fires an arrow and it flies right by Matt's head, missing his ear by an inch. He makes a face at her and she shrugs. "A tailored three piece with extra impenetrable layers underside."

So something like Fisk's been wearing years ago, before he got a room in a prison for a long, long stay.

"Katie-Kate's onto something," Clint says, because he's an awful person. "You wouldn't have to worry about changing. You could even have it in a mind-numbing and eye-watering red."

"And have matching gloves as an accessory," Kate adds.

"And red shoes," Clint snickers. One of the invisible overgrown rats is sneaking up behind his back. Matt doesn't tell him that it's there. He never claimed that he wasn't petty. "Fuck!" Clint yells when the rat-thing attacks his ankle. "A little warning next time, Red?!"

"Oh I'm sorry," Matt says and makes sure it's apparent that he's not sorry in the least. He does kick the rat-thing that bit Clint, though. "I must have been too busy thinking about my matching gloves."

"Christ, Matt, it's just an idea, no need to be so pissy." Clint sends an arrow that Matt has to actively dodge. Behind them, Kate just sighs. "What crawled up your ass and died?"

Well.

"Three rats on your four, Clint," Matt murmurs. Clint doesn't know who Foggy Nelson is, talking to him would lead nowhere, and wasting time explaining their whole complicated history would be counterproductive. Plus it would require telling him things Matt wasn't sure he wanted Clint to know. "It's nothing."

"It is something," Clint insists. "Usually you're not this gloomy. And yes, do appreciate the irony in this statement."

"Is it because of that guy at the ball?" Kate asks. Matt decides that he doesn't like her anymore. She's way too observant.

"It's not because of that guy at the ball," Matt lies. "Kate, one on your three. And can someone please contact Stark and ask how goes stopping this infestation? I have an actual job to get to in the morning, and I'm pretty sure Kate has lessons starting at eight."

Clint taps his earpiece and listens in. "Nat says she and Steve are taking on the nutjob. He's controlling the animal-thingies with some tech, Stark's working on it. Shouldn't be much longer."

"Perfect," Matt mutters and kicks yet another of those things and sends it flying.

They fight in silence for a moment, before Kate deems it necessary to break it with, "I think it's because of that guy at the ball." Matt whines low in his throat. Why won't she drop it. "See," Kate tells Clint, "there was this guy at the ball, and I think Matt knows him. Like, _knows_ knows. Lots of weird tension going on between them."

" _Katherine._ "

"What, like an ex-boyfriend?" Clint asks.

"It's nothing," Matt repeats. Because it is. Nothing. It's nothing. Foggy's not an ex-boyfriend. He's an ex-friend for sure. He's not an ex-love, he's never going to be an ex-that, Matt's made his peace with that. He's an ex-maybe and an ex-hopefully. He's an ex-something alright. But not an ex-boyfriend. 

To change the subject, Matt asks, "hey Clint? Do you think Danny was telling the truth?"

Clint ends up shooting two rat-things with one arrow. "The truth about what?"

"The candles. At my birthday party."

"You mean the truth about them being magical?" Matt nods and Clint snorts. "Like hell. He bought them in 7-Eleven on his way to your place. He was just trolling you, because he's Danny and he's mentally five."

"Oh."

"Why're you asking?" Clint inquires. "Any naughty wishes coming true?"

Matt shakes his head and says, "nope."

 

**18.**

It takes almost two more hours before Stark finally deactivates the machine that the Oscorp nutjob's been using to control his weird mutated rats. By that time all three of them have been bitten at least four times, and whatever it was that was making the rats invisible has long worn off. At least that's what Matt's been told.

"They're so fugly," Kate bemoans. "I wish they never turned visible. Blergh. I can never unsee them."

They're back at the café, where the Avengers — plus Matt and Kate — decided to regroup. Wanda's moving between them, taking away the pain and attempting to heal some minor cuts and bruises. She's been working and practicing with Stephen Strange lately, and while Stephen claims that magic — or reality-warping power, apparently — cannot heal wounds, Wanda seems not to agree.

Matt insisted Wanda help Kate first, so now Kate's sitting on a table and is swinging her legs lazily, observing as Wanda tends to Matt. "Go home, Kate," Matt tells her. "It's late."

"Not before I get to hear Cap's 'good job Avengers' speech."

Matt rolls his eyes. "We're not Avengers."

"Speak for yourself. I'd love to be an Avenger."

"Turn eighteen first and we'll talk," Clint tells her. He turns to Wanda. "They're okay? I'm not in the mood for Steve's patented 'you bring civilians into a fight and then they get hurt' speech."

"Hey!" Matt chips in. "We're not civilians either!"

Well. Kate is. Sort of. Unless one counted those weird teens she kept hanging around with as a team. But Matt? Definitely not a civilian. While his area of expertise might be a bit more grounded and street-level than alien invasions and homicidal robots, he did experience his fair share of fucking weird.

Just look at Mr. I-Punched-A-Dragon. Matt should be hailed a hero for merely putting up with him.

"Both fine," Wanda says with a smile. "The rats weren't poisonous, and all the other cuts are superficial."

"Great. Kate," Clint turns to her, "hop off and go find Tasha, she'll drive you home."

"I can get there myself, Jesus, Clint," Kate grumbles, but hoists herself off the table and obediently goes to find Natasha. She waves Matt goodbye.

Clint turns to Matt. "Need a ride to your brownstone?"

"Would be greatly appreciated." Clint hands him his cane and glasses, and Matt takes them with a nod of thanks. They walk out of the café and towards an SUV parked nearby, probably SHIELD's, most likely not Stark's. 

Clint speaks again only when Matt's already opened the door on the passenger's side. "Whatever it is that's eating at you," he says, "you know you can always talk to me, right?"

"I know," Matt says, surprised.

Clint nods and climbs inside the car. "Good."

 

**19.**

"What and where?" is the question that Kirsten greets him with when he finally drags himself inside.

"Both ankles, a wrist and a calf, I got bit," Matt tells her, "but no worries, the mutated rats weren't poisonous. We think." Kirsten makes a choked-off noise. "An additional gash on my forehead, courtesy of Clint, it was an accident."

She gets up from the armchair she's been sitting in and walks up to him, brushes his hair aside to look at the cut. Matt's grateful that it stopped bleeding so profusely and doesn't look so bad anymore. "Do I need to call Claire?"

Matt shakes his head. "Wanda's already had a look," he says. "I'm fine, really. It wasn't even bad. Just your usual Oscorp problematic business. Their HR department should have a better screening process."

"Any grounds for suing their asses?"

"No, they'll deny any involvement in one of their employee's latest evil scheme up and down."

"Damn." She sighs. "But we'll get them one day."

She takes his hand and they move to the kitchen, where Matt drops onto one of the chairs, puts his elbows on the counter and hides his face in his hands tiredly, while Kirsten busies herself with making him tea.

"How was the rest of the party?" Matt asks.

Kirsten hums something he can't hear. He really is tired, it's only now catching up with him. "We didn't stay long," she says. "Jack fell asleep so I told dad that I don't give a crap anymore, I'm taking my kid home and putting him to bed. I called Marci, told her that we might be late tomorrow, and then I just waited."

It's a thing she does. It's a system they have. Some nights, when he goes out, he tells her what he hears, what's happening in the city that he knows of, and she tells him where to go, kisses his cheek and tells him to go be a hero. Some nights — especially if he ends up working with his own team, or working with the Avengers — she waits for him in the living room, with one finger on the 'dial' option next to Claire's phone number. And all nights — no matter what she does beforehand, or where she waits — the first thing she asks about are his injuries. She takes stock of them. She makes sure he's fine. She's crazy efficient.

He hates the fact that he made her crazy efficient.

"He left quite early too," Kirsten says quietly as she places a mug full of steaming tea in front of him.

He doesn't have to ask whom she means. Instead of replying, he takes the mug in his hands and drinks the tea, and lets it burn his tongue.

Kirsten's fingers in his hair, massaging his scalp, make him shiver. "How do you feel?"

She's not asking about the bites and the gash on his forehead.

He puts the mug down. He doesn't want to talk about it. "I'm not going to start looking for pills, if that's what you're worried about. And you're not my shrink," he tells her.

Surprisingly, she laughs. "It's not, and you don't have a shrink." Which, okay. Fair point. Her fingers continue to card through his hair. It's matted with blood at the temple. "I just want to know how you feel."

Not 'if you're alright' or 'if you're fine' or even 'if you're going to be fine'. He's not exactly alright and he's not fine, objectively speaking, and he's not sure about the last one.

"I don't know," he tells her and leans into her touch. "I don't know how I feel. I didn't--I wasn't expecting that."

Kirsten hums again and places a kiss on the top of his head. "But it's not bad."

He lets out a soft sigh. "No, it's not bad."


	4. Chapter 4

**20.**

He wonders how bad he must look — and sincerely hopes it’s because of the bandages on his wrist and the cut on his forehead, not some other factor that is completely beyond his control — because Marci stops typing the second he appears in the doorway of her office. He's holding a cup of that disgusting diabetes-inducing iced vanilla frappucino that she loves and he was nice enough to buy on his way back from the court. 

It was supposed to be a diversion. Give Marci the coffee in hopes that she won't pay too much attention to how he looks.

It clearly doesn't work, judging by how her heartbeat picks up when he walks in and puts the coffee on the edge of her desk.

“Fucking hell,” Marci says. It’s not an inaccurate summary of what happened yesterday, to be honest. Fucking hell indeed. “Jesus. So I did see right, it was him? Fucking hell.”

“What?” Matt asks, frowning.

“Fucking Foggy Nelson,” Marci says and Matt’s heart stops. How on earth does she-- “It _was_ him that I saw in court then.”

Wait. “In court?” His frown deepens. “When was that?”

“Two weeks ago, right after the Ramirez judgment,” she explains. “I thought I saw him in the corridor. At the time I thought I was just overworked to the point of hallucinating, but now, with you looking like this,” she waves her hand in Matt’s general direction, “I know I wasn’t wrong.”

Matt bristles. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re making the Nelson face. Haven’t seen it in quite a while, so something must have prompted it. Where did you see him?”

“I don’t have a ‘Foggy’ face,” Matt says. It’s ridiculous. He doesn’t. Marci’s wrong. Kirsten’s wrong too, for that matter. He doesn’t have a ‘Foggy’ face. He’s not that obvious and transparent. He’s a lawyer, for God’s sake, he can’t be that obvious and transparent.

“You do,” Marci mutters. She closes the lid of her laptop and puts her elbows on her desk, rests her chin on her clasped hands. “So? Where was it? He stalked you at court?”

“Wendell’s party, actually.”

From the brief silence that follows, Matt assumes that Marci is staring. Kirsten gapes when stunned into silence, with her lips parted and mouth slightly open, right side curving upwards a bit. He wonders, not for the first time, what does Marci look like. What does she look like when surprised and shocked. When happy. He wishes he knew.

“What on earth was Foggy Nelson doing at a prime socialite event like Wendell’s book launch?”

“Doing rounds as the guest of honour,” Matt murmurs. He taps his cane. “Apparently he is Wendell’s new head of legal.”

“Fucking hell.” She drops her head and runs her hands over it, messing up her hair. She sighs and looks up again. “Karen’s not going to like this.”

“You’re not going to tell Karen.”

“Like hell I’m not,” Marci snaps. “She has to know. We’re your people, Matt. You said so yourself. How are we supposed to support you if we don’t know what’s happening?”

“You're not going to tell Karen,” Matt repeats. “You _can't_. What do you think will happen if you do?”

“Karen will hop onto the next plane back to New York and will be here the day after tomorrow at the latest.” 

Matt splays his hands open in a ‘so you see’ gesture. “We can’t let her do that,” he tells Marci. “This internship is an incredible opportunity for her, she deserves it. I won’t have her future ruined because of me, so you _can’t_ tell her.”

“Fine,” Marci grits out. "You're right. Just saying that leaves a bad taste in my mouth." She takes a deep steadying breath. “At least tell me that you’re relatively okay”

“It was one brief meeting, Marce,” Matt huffs. “I’m not going to--to--to just _fall apart_ because of that.”

“You don’t have the best track record when it comes to dealing with Nelson-related things. And you are depressed, and please, remind the class, which one of us has lifelong experience dealing with depressed people?” Matt gestures at her mutely, and she nods. “Precisely. So. Now, tell me. One to ten?”

Matt grimaces. “I’m not suicidal, Marci, you don’t have to fuss.”

“Not anymore,” Marci points out. “Maybe not _yet_. One to ten. Give me a number, Matty.”

She almost never calls him ‘Matty’. She considers it a demeaning and immature nickname and refuses to use it, in general. She only ever calls him that when she’s truly concerned — and she’s been using it less and less often over the past few years — and that’s how he knows she’s anxious about his answer. Matt taps his cane again. “Five,” he says. Marci makes a disbelieving sound. “Maybe closer to six.”

She leans back in her chair. “Okay,” she says. “Okay, we can work with a six.” She moves the chair back sharply and stands up. She closes a file that’s been lying on her desk and takes it with her, exits her office. She drops the file onto what used to be Karen’s desk, but is now just one giant file of documents. “We really need to hire a temp secretary,” she tells Matt. “Don’t you know any kids who’d want to earn a few bucks?”

“Perhaps Gwen Stacy will be interested.” Marci offers him her arm and he takes it. “I’ll ask Kate to talk to her.”

“Perfect,” Marci states as she leads Matt to their office door. “I like Gwen, she reminds me of me.”

“Now there’s a compliment.” Matt attempts a smirk. Marci sighs at that. “Where’re we going?”

“Six,” Marci says. “You said ‘six’, so we’re going to get a drink. We’re the partners here, we can close the office whenever we want and go get drunk when the situation calls for it."

Marci's not so big on getting drunk as a coping mechanism, so this is out of character for her and only serves as proof of how completely rattled she is under this exterior of calm and meanness.

 

**21.**

Marci empties the rest of the bottle of nameless and pretty much tasteless alcohol into her glass and shakes the bottle sadly. "I'm pretty sure this could kill us," she says as she puts it away. "I'm not even sure if it's legal. Why did you have to choose this shithole as your favourite haunt?"

"Because it's resilient." Matt shrugs. "And I wouldn't call it that, Josie might hear and then what, we might end up banned from here, like Barton and Lang."

"Don't worry, Murdock, Miss Hart," Marci raises her glass to toast Josie, "and I have an understanding concerning this fine establishment. You're safe. Besides, if memory serves, Barton and Lang were banned for fighting, not badmouthing the place."

Marci gulps down the rest of her drink and waves at Josie, requesting another bottle.

"May I remind you that it's only two in the afternoon?" Matt says.

"It's eight somewhere," Marci replies. "More specifically, it's eight in the Hague, where our dear friend Karen is probably eating a fancy dinner with her beau the prince and is kept in blissful ignorance as to the newest plot twist of your Harlequin of a life."

Matt grimaces. "I won't argue with you. We're not telling Karen, end of discussion. It's my Harlequin of a life so it's my call. She deserves to be in the Hague. She deserves to get her education, get her prince, and we are not letting her give it up. Not for me."

"'You're my people'," Marci quotes his own words back at him, the desperate bid for some support he made years ago. It sounds even more pathetic than it did then. "'Can't do it alone.'"

"I'm not alone," he points out. "I've got you." Marci makes an approving sound. "And I've got Kirsten and Jack."

"And the Avengers," Marci adds, nodding. "And Luke, and Jess."

The most astonishing thing is that he _does_. Somehow, somewhere during the past four years, he befriended those people. They became not only his occasional — and often annoying — teammates, but also the people he genuinely cared about. They became friend, they became the people willing to stand by him, to help him, to make sure he got back home, to make sure his family was safe, people who would fight for him and who would fight _him_ if it was needed. And they knew he'd do the same for them.

Matt raises his glass and grins. "And Danny."

Marci groans. "Please, what is Danny Rand good for? Except for a bed warmer at night."

Matt chokes on the mysterious drink and sputters. Marci's quiet opposite him, so he imagines she's smirking. "I didn't need to know that," he says.

"But now you do." She takes a deep breath and continues, "I won't tell Karen _for now_ , but the moment I think something fishy's starting to happen, I'm calling her."

It's the best he'll get from Marci, so he doesn't argue that point. "Nothing is going to happen," he tells Marci instead. "We were introduced at the party, big deal. We're probably not going to see each other again. It's--fine. Okay."

Marci's quiet for a long minute. "Are you being purposefully dumb now?" she asks eventually.

"Whatever gave you _that_ idea?"

"That asshole works for Wendell."

"He's not an asshole," Matt bristles.

Marci waves her hand, dismissing Matt's comment as a moot point. "He works for your father-in-law, Matt," she says. "Arguably, he's the second most important person here in the New York offices. That means any event hosted by Wendell will have you both in attendance, unless one of you bails, but that'd be in a very poor taste and could result in him getting fired, so that's not going to happen."

"Wendell can't exactly fire _me_ ," Matt points out.

"True," Marci admits, "but he's still Kirsten's father and the whelp's grandfather, and I know you well enough to know that you're willing to bend over backwards to make sure their relationship stays positive, so you're not going to say 'no'. You're terrible at saying 'no' to people in general, but family? Yeah, _no_."

She's not wrong. Matt did suffer through a four-week-long cruise on that goddamn yacht last holiday, after all.

"You are going to be seeing him, whether you want to or not." Marci wets her lips and leans forward over the table, closer to him. "And what _then_?"

He hasn't even thought if he wants to see Foggy again or not (he wants, he _wants_ , knows he shouldn't but _does_ ), let alone what'll happen once he does. He should figure it out before the next time Wendell comes over. The plus side is that he doesn't do it often, twice a year usually, sometimes more often if there's an book expo or something akin happening in the city, but Wendell's boring soirees are a bi-annual thing at best. He still has six months to figure it out. That's plenty of time to get his shit together.

"I don't know."

Marci hums. "And how do you _feel_?"

"I don't know," Matt says, frustrated. He told Kirsten the same thing. He just doesn't know. He doesn't know how to sift through the _everything_ that he's feeling. "I don't--I _don't know_."

She hums again. "One to ten?"

He thinks about his answer. "Five," he tells her.

This time, she believes him.

 

**22.**

"It's _okay_ not to be okay, Matty," Marci tells him quietly.

 

**23.**

"... And I didn't tell him it was standing there, right beside him. Bit through his pants and right into his leg."

Marci laughs and clinks his glass. "Vindictive much?" she teases.

Matt shrugs. "He was being an ass. I do feel bad about it now." He pauses. "A little bit."

"I'm sure Laura Barton will be very grateful for your guilt."

Matt swirls the alcohol in his glass. It's some kind of vodka, he thinks. Or at least something that once laid next to a vodka and perhaps absorbed some of the vodka's qualities through osmosis.

"I wonder what Kirsten's doing," he says. She hasn't called him yet today. She told him she would, and she hasn't. He tries not to worry, he really does. She's working. She might have been told to turn her phone off. Maybe she just forgot. There are plenty of reasonable explanations and he doesn't need to panic at once.

"She's in court today, right?"

Matt nods. "They're cross-examining Bletchley," he tells Marci. "I thought she'd be done by now, but if it's Maki asking questions instead of Priest, it could take more than four hours."

"Ugh." Marci shivers. "I hate her. Tiny evil Japanese."

"That's racist, Marce."

"Is not. I'd hate her equally if she were American." Matt laughs. "You laugh, but just wait. One day she'll turn out to be some sort of a supervillain."

"She's not that bad."

And she's not. He's met Maki a few times. And sure, she is intense to the point of being terrifying, and she can genuinely scare people into obedience or admitting their guilt, but that only makes her a terrific A.D.A. She's a lot like Marci, in fact, which might be why Marci cannot stand her.

Marci shrugs. "Constant vigilance, Matt."

"You mean paranoia."

It's funny that that sentence even makes it past his lips; it's such a pot, kettle situation that Matt's surprised Marci hasn't called him out on it.

"It's not paranoia when they really are out to get you, and working with you I've seen enough shit to tell me that they are." 

She makes a grab for his glass, which he moves away from her reach. "You've had enough, Marce."

"Maybe of _you_ ," she quips. "I can hold my liquor much better than you. You're such a lightweight, Murdock, always has been."

"I can hold my liquor just fine."

"Uh-huh, sure. We can test that theory." Marci turns around in her chair and waves at Josie. "Hey, Josie Hart! We'll need a fresh bottle of something of quality and ten shot glasses."

"Marci," he laughs.

"I challenge you to a shots race," Marci announces the moment Josie brings a full bottle and the requested ten shot glasses to their table. "The first person to fall under the table has to admit their competitor's superiority _and_ has to deal with Mrs. Blume the next time she comes in demanding a change in her will."

Matt grins. " _Deal._ "

 

**24.**

Kirsten finds them both with their heads on their tables, only somewhat cushioned by their arms. She puts her hands on her hips and sighs when she stops by their table.

"Hi," Matt greets her with a smile, which she can't even see as it's obscured by his hand.

"Everyone in this firm has an unhealthy and co-dependent relationship with alcohol," she says and shakes her head. Fondly, though. She does it fondly. She's not actually angry.

"That's the Columbia school of dealing with life shit and stress," Marci tells her. She raises her head. "Not my fault you didn't learn that at Stanford."

"It's five in the afternoon," Kirsten says. "How drunk are you two?"

Matt raises his head as well. Squints, in Marci's general direction, then shakes his head to clear it. He doesn't have a headache — maybe not _yet_ — and he doesn't feel bad, overall.

"Not as drunk as we look," he says. "Surprisingly."

"Half of the stuff I gave them was non-alcoholic," Josie says, stopping by Kirsten to pick the shot glasses and the two empty bottles that Marci stashed next to their table. "Just like we agreed."

Marci whines. "That's cheating, Miss Hart!"

Kirsten smiles. He's pretty sure she smiles, she cocks her head a bit to the right and moves her chin forward, that usually means she's smiling. "Thank you, Josie. And thanks for calling."

"Traitor," Marci murmurs.

"You'll thank me tomorrow, when you walk into court without a hangover at 8am."

"I hate it when you're reasonable." Marci turns to Matt. "Why did you have to marry someone who's _reasonable_?"

"Temporary insanity?" Matt offers. "And you didn't want me."

Kirsten claps her hands. "Chop chop, you two slackers. Up and we're going."

They really aren't as drunk as Matt thought they were, at first. Standing up and navigating around is no problem. "I think you won," he tells Marci.

She snorts. "Of course I won, you're hopeless."

"Oh, and Marci?" he asks. "Four and a half."

She straightens and lifts her chin and he's pretty sure it means that she _beams_.

 

**25.**

Admitting Marci's superiority turns out to include having to run some of her errands, and so on Wednesday morning Matt finds himself at the precinct, trying to coax the desk sergeant into copying some files for him

"Technically you need a written request for that, Counselor Murdock."

Matt smiles and turns on his heel. "I was hoping I could get them as a friendly favour, not through all the official channels, Captain Mahoney."

Brett snorts and waves at the desk sergeant. "Go copy him those documents, Bobby." Bobby grabs the thick file Matt's interested in and dashes away. Brett turns to face Matt. "Man, long time no see. You look good, Matt."

Matt taps his cane. A few months at the least. The last time--The last time they saw each other was at the funeral. God. "I didn't know you were back on active duty."

Brett shrugs. "I couldn't stand sitting at home anymore, it's become suffocating, too many memories. Had to come back or I'd go crazy there. Oh, and I shrugged," he adds.

"How's Ginny taking it?"

Matt's met Ginny Mahoney a handful of times. Brett wasn't his friend, per se, but they were on friendly terms and were always helpful towards one another. So he's had the pleasure of getting to know the youngest Mahoney. She was a sweet and resolute kid.

"As well as a two-year-old can." Brett runs a hand over his mouth. "She keeps asking about where her mummy went. I tell her that mummy went to a better place where she's not ill anymore, and she asks when mummy will be back. It breaks my heart every time."

Ginny Mahoney is still too young to truly understand that her mother is gone, that her mother died and is not going to come back. She might even grow up not remembering anything about her mother. Jack... Jack's older than her, twice her age. Jack would remember that he had a father. Jack would be told that his father died and he wouldn't be confused, he wouldn't ask if daddy was going to come back, he would understand everything. If Matt dies, Jack would--He would--

"I'm sorry," Matt murmurs.

Brett clasps his arm. "Not your fault, man." That much is true. Tricia Mahoney wasn't killed by a robber or in a shootout, it was nothing that Daredevil could have prevented. Cancer is not something he can cure. "She's fine, she's a strong kid. Mama's taking care of her. Even some old friends have offered their help."

"I'm glad." Bobby comes back and hands Brett copies of the four pages that Matt asked for. Brett looks at them, checking if there's nothing that shouldn't leave the precinct walls, then hands them over to Matt, who folds them and shoves into the inside pocket of his jacket. "May I ask you something--weird?"

"For the sake of my curiosity I'll say yes," Brett jokes.

Matt taps his cane again. "Have you--Have you heard from Foggy, lately?"

The question takes Brett by surprise. "Foggy?" he asks. Matt nods. "No. Not since he had that mental breakdown and cut his ties with everyone he knew."

Matt winces. Brett doesn't know the full story — he's not exactly Matt's friend so Matt never felt compelled to tell him his secret, and Foggy never shared either — so he doesn't know what went down, precisely, but it still irks Matt, to have that horror downplayed like this. "It wasn't a mental breakdown."

Brett splays his hands helplessly. "I don't know what it was," he says, "I only know what he did. Broke my Mama's heart. Good thing his folks weren't around anymore, his mum would have gone ballistic."

That does match what little Matt knows of Anna Nelson. He laughs. "Yeah, she probably would have."

"Why're you asking?"

Matt weighs his options and decides to shrug. "Just curious."

 

**26.**

"They're setting up a drafting committee for a new additional protocol, with so many superhuman and superpowered individuals around possibly committing international crimes, they've got to have some new rules established," Karen shares in an excited voice. "And they invited me, Matt. They invited _me_ to be part of it, to consult. They've read some of my publications and they called me a specialist. Matt, they called me a _specialist_ , how freakin awesome is that!"

Matt smiles politely. "It's amazing, Karen. Well-deserved and amazing."

Karen sighs. "Okay, what's going on?" she asks and her voice loses that excited tone, become more concerned. He doesn't want her to get concerned, he doesn't want her to focus on anything other than her own life and future. "You look sad and I know you haven't actually been listening to what I've been saying."

"You got asked to consult for a drafting committee, because they've rightfully recognised you as a specialist in the field of superhuman law," Matt says, just to prove her wrong. To make her drop that concerned tone of voice. "I always listen to you."

"You like my voice, yeah, yeah. I'm waving my hand." Karen takes a breath. "Are you sure you're alright? You seem--off."

He prays that she doesn't mention a 'Foggy' face. "Tough case," he says. "Mrs. Blume is slowly running out of relatives to write out of her will." Karen laughs. It's a good strategy, to get her to laugh. Even better is to get her to talk about something that excites her, she'll get distracted and then she'll forget. "And how's your prince."

"He's not mine," Karen says, way too fast. He imagines she's blushing now, all the way in the Hague. "He, um... He invited me for a trip to Wakanda."

"That escalated quickly," Matt says, dead serious, and makes her laugh again. He grins too. Karen's laugh has always been contagious. "First Geneva, now this... Are you going?"

"I'm nodding like crazy," Karen says. "There's a team of investigators from the prosecutor's office going to Wakanda next month, as part of the pre-trial stage of the Klaue case, and I managed to talk my way onto it. That way I'll get to go to Wakanda _and_ I won't have to take any time off from the Court."

"Sneaky."

She probably shrugs. "I try," she says. "Oh, and I shrugged."

"Judging by how fast your romance is going, I should be expecting a wedding invitation by the time you come back to New York."

"About that." Matt feels his stomach drop. She promised she'd come back. Yes, sure, it was before she knew how much fun working for the ICC was, before she knew her prince, but she promised she'd be back. "I was going to pop in with a surprise visit next month, but now with that trip to Wakanda, I won't be able to afford it. So you'll only see me after the internship is over."

"Oh," is all that Matt manages to say.

"You thought I wasn't going to come back," Karen says and it's not even a question. He doesn't deny. He has abandonment issues and she knows, denying it would be an insult to her intelligence. "I promised I'd be back. Even if I decided to get hitched on that trip to Wakanda, I'd still come back." She pauses. "T'Shan is a UN ambassador, he lives in New York, you know. So even if I do become Princess Karen, I'll still live in the same city as you."

"Just in slightly better conditions," he remarks, thinking of Karen's dingy stinking apartment. "I googled him. I didn't know that the Wakandan royal family had a dynasty name. The House of Udaku?"

"I did," Karen admits. "That's what T'Shan has in his passport. T'Shan Udaku, of Wakandan citizenship. It's weird to think of that as a surname."

"Karen Udaku," Matt says. "Sounds good."

"I'm so glad you approve," Karen snorts.

"Karen Udaku. Karen Ikomo Wakandas. Her Royal Highness Princess Karen of Wakanda."

"You can add 'Karen Iqadi T'Shan' to that list."

"Which means...?"

"'Karen, Wife of T'Shan'," Karen explains, laughter clear in her voice, so she must be smiling. "I've invested in Rosetta Stone for Wakandan."

Matt smiles too. "Princess Karen, always planning for the future."

"Someone has to." She falls silent. When she speaks again, that concerned tone is back. "Are you sure you're okay? Nothing awful has happened?"

"I'm fine, Karen, really," he says. "Nothing's happened."

"And you'd tell me if it did?"

Nothing's happened. Nothing _awful_ has happened. Karen asked about something awful happening. And now she wants to know if he'd tell her if something awful happened. "I would. I _will_ ," he promises.

What did happen was nothing awful, so he doesn't break the word he's given.

 

**27.**

It's a steady five for the rest of the month.


	5. Chapter 5

**28.**

The building is dark, but that doesn’t stop him. It’s hardly enough to stop him, he lives in the shadows and his whole world is dark. Darkness is something he knows. But for his opponents, it’s a handicap.

He takes out three before moving to another room. He didn’t kill them, no; two of them are moaning softly and the third one might have a broken spine — he heard a crack, but he doesn’t know in which bone, can’t concentrate on that now, can’t — but he’s alive. He’ll live, even if he’ll never walk again.

Matt finds it hard to care.

Four more in a corridor linking the rooms, he drops them methodically and as efficiently as he can. No point in lingering, no point in finesse. They’re just simple thugs, standing between him and what he came here for. He won’t be stopped, not by them, not by anything.

It’s his job to get in there, but it’s also so much more than that. It’s a duty. An obligation. He _needs_ to get there, before…

Before.

The building must be old, it smells faintly of rust, Matt can taste copper in the air.

It’s not rust, he realizes as he opens the door and punches the man waiting on the other side. It’s not rust, he thinks as he elbows him in the face and cuts his legs from under him. It’s blood. It’s blood — he takes his billy club and throws it at the man guarding the centre of the room, hits him in the back of his head — it’s _blood_ , there’s so much blood in here, _he’s bleeding out_ …

Three guards in the room altogether, one of them manages to cut through his costume, now Matt’s bleeding too, but that’s nothing. He brings them down one by one without consciously registering that, goes through the motions of hit-punch-kick-punch-jump-punch instinctively, with little thought. All he can think about is the blood pooling around the chair in the middle of the room.

He drops to his knees in front of the chair and cups the cheeks of the man bound to it. He’s conscious, but barely. Long blond hair tickles the back of his hands. “Foggy.”

Nothing. Just the wheezing breathing, he has broken ribs. One of Matt’s hands moves further up, into Foggy’s hair, and his fingers find a crack in the bone. Christ.

“Foggy,” Matt repeats. It’s both quieter and more determined, but also so so scared. He’s scared. Matt’s _scared_ , because Foggy is bleeding, he might be _bleeding out_ and it’s Matt’s fault, Matt’s fault, all his fault. “Foggy, I’ve got you.”

“Too late.”

Matt recoils.

Foggy raises his head and flashes him a bloody grin, he must be bleeding internally, oh God don’t let him bleed out, please don’t let him die. “You’re too late,” Foggy tells him. His breathing is steady once more, his heartbeat strong and sure and truthful, and his blue eyes cold as ice. “You’re always too late. There’s nothing to save here. Nothing to salvage.”

Matt shakes his head. His thumb strokes the clammy skin of Foggy’s cheek. “It’s not,” he assures him. “It’s not too late, Foggy, it’s _not_. It’ll be alright, I can fix this, I can fix this for us.”

“You can’t fix this,” Foggy smiles pityingly. “You’ll never fix this.”

Matt shakes his head again. “No,” he says. No, no, no. “Don’t say that, please don’t say that.”

Foggy grabs Matt’s wrists and squeezes, brings Matt’s hands down to his lap. They’re red. Matt’s hands are red, red, red, Matt’s hands are covered in blood, he’ll never get rid of it, the blood will never wash out. “You’re making the same mistakes, Matt," Foggy whispers. He leans forward in the chair and there’s a hard glint in his eyes. “They’re going to get hurt and it’ll be your fault, like this is your fault, like everything is.”

His heartbeat gets sluggish. It gets slower and slower, fainter with every passing second, and there’s nothing that Matt can do, because his hands are bloodied, they’re weighed down by the blood on them, and Foggy is still holding his wrists in an iron grasp. He can only sob and _scream_ and wish this wasn’t true.

 

**29.**

Matt bolts up in bed, with a ghost of a scream on his lips. His chest is heaving, he’s covered in sweat and there’s a distinct salty smell around him that indicates tears. Next to him, Kirsten murmurs something in her sleep and turns to lie on her other side. He hasn’t woken her, thank God he hasn’t woken her.

He runs a shaking hand over his eyes and takes a deep breath. It was just a dream. He was, he was just dreaming. He should have known. He still sees in his dreams.

He fumbles for a second before finding his watch on the bedside table and feeling for the time. He sighs. Great. It’s not even 2am. A wonderful, sleepless night awaits him, perfect. He’s too shaken to go out on patrol and he knows for a fact he won’t be able to go back to sleep. If he stays in bed, he’ll end up waking Kirsten — somehow she always knows when he’s awake. He needs to, he needs to get up. Out of the bedroom.

He throws the covers off and swings his legs. He stands up as quietly and gently as he can, trying not to rouse Kirsten. He holds his breath and waits to see if she felt the mattress shift — no, she hasn’t, she doesn’t wake up, she just turns again and steals the coverlet that he’s just abandoned. He smiles; she tends to do that, hoards all the blankets and sheets and all the covers for herself. Sleeping with her was difficult at the beginning — she would pull all the covers for herself and he would wake up freezing.

He’s used to that, now. Kirsten’s warm enough herself, and in case of an emergency he keeps spare blankets under his side of their bed.

Matt pads out of their bedroom and into the corridor. On his way to the stairs, downstairs to the living room, he stops by the door to Jack’s room. He reaches out and runs his hand against the wood of it. The door’s closed, of course it is, he closed it himself after he put Jack to bed and read him the story Jack chose. _Dragons Love Tacos_ , something that Clint recommended, saying that Lila loved it and that it was fun.

Well. If Lila loved it.

Matt presses the door-handle and enters the room. He sidesteps the toys Jack left on the ground and moves towards the bed, where he perches on the edge of it. Jack’s sleeping, one arm thrown above his head with a fist clenched, the other wrapped around a toy rabbit. Matt wrinkles his nose. The toy is old, as old as Jack, and has been through hell and back, been coughed on, dripped on, dropped, kicked, thrown into the mud, had various liquids spilt on it. Despite Kirsten’s best efforts, all those smells linger on the rabbit’s fur and make Matt’s head spin. They should throw it away, Jack had enough stuffed animals. But no. Jack wouldn’t have it. He loved that rabbit.

Matt runs a hand through Jack’s hair. It’s soft as silk, slightly wavy, like Matt’s own. But black, black like Kirsten’s, he’s been told. Jack looks like him, people say; he has Kirsten’s darker skin colour and her black hair, but he has Matt’s eyes and Matt's nose and Matt’s smile and Matt’s ridiculous cheekbones.

But that’s where the similarities end, and Matt’s glad.

Jack’s breathing pattern changes and Matt knows that he woke up even before he yawns and asks sleepily, “daddy?”

“Hey, monkey,” Matt says softly and continues stroking Jack’s hair. “It’s okay. Go back to sleep.”

“Is it morning?”

Matt chuckles. “No, sweets, it’s not. You can sleep.”

“Why aren’t you sleeping?”

Matt swallows thickly. “I had a bad dream.”

“Did you get scared?”

Coming from anyone else, it would be a sneer. Daredevil, the Man Without Fear — oh how Matt hated that moniker, goddamn you, _Bugle_ — scared of bad dreams and his own demons lurking in the night. But from Jack? Spoken with the sincerity of a four-year-old child?

“Yes,” Matt admits. “I did.”

Jack raises himself on his elbows. Matt drops his hand and allows Jack to sit up. "I get scared too," Jack whispers. "But that's okay, because fear cannot be without hope."

Matt gapes. He's pretty sure he gapes. That's not something he expected to hear from the lips of a four-year-old. From Karen, maybe. Or from Danny, that sounds like one of his damn wise sayings. "When did you get this smart?"

Jack wraps his fingers around the edge of his coverlet. He lowers his head and starts picking at the rim of the coverlet. Matt imagines his face — a younger, more childish version of his own, the way he remembers it being when he was nine — is red now. Matt remembers that he used to blush brick red when embarrassed.

"I didn't," Jack says eventually. "Mr. Vision told me that."

"Recognising wise words is being smart too," Matt tells him. "Don't let anyone tell you it isn't."

"Okay."

"I used to have a friend," Matt says before he can stop himself, "we quoted Thurgood Marshall at each other all the time when we were in law school."

Jack cocks his head to the side in curiosity. "A friend from school? Aunt Marci?"

Matt shakes his head 'no'. "No," he says. "No, a different friend. You don't know him."

"Can I meet him?" Jack asks, excited.

Matt cups the side of Jack's face and strokes his cheek with a thumb. "I don't think so, monkey," he says. "We're...we're not friends anymore."

"Oh." The disappointment is apparent in Jack's voice. "Why?"

Matt's silent for a moment. "I did something bad," he settles for in the end. "And he didn't want to be my friend after that."

"Did you try saying 'sorry'?"

"I did. But it wasn't enough to fix my mistake." Matt sighs. Late night deep conversations with one's son aren't something that parenting guides Wendell used to throw his way covered. "It's late, Jackie, you should go back to sleep. I'm sorry I woke you. I just wanted to," make sure you were safe, "check up on you."

"And Mr. Wabbit?"

Matt laughs. "Yes, and Mr. Wabbit." God damn that old smelly toy.

"You can have him," Jack says suddenly, pushing the stuffed rabbit at Matt. "He makes fears disappear. Mr. Thor says he's magic. He'll keep you safe."

Matt takes the rabbit. It really is an old toy, smelly and kind of disgusting. The rabbit's fur isn't even soft anymore.

Matt bought it for Jack. He brought it to the hospital with him the day Jack was born.

"What about you?" he asks. He presses the rabbit to his chest. "You don't need Mr. Wabbit to keep you safe?"

Jack shakes his head. "No," he says, full of pride, "because my dad is a superhero."

 

**30.**

It takes Jack fifteen minutes to fall back asleep. Matt stays with him for another forty, carding his fingers through Jack's hair and whispering ardent promises that he will, he will, he will.

 

**31.**

In the morning, Kirsten finds him asleep in the living room, curled up in an old armchair, with his face pressed to a stuffed rabbit.

Maybe Thor's right about the magic.

 

**32.**

"You might not hear from me in the next two weeks," Karen announces the moment the call goes through. "Just giving you the heads up."

Matt frowns. "Why? What's going on?"

"The investigation team is leaving for Wakanda," Karen explains. "We'll be busy, there's a lot of documents to read, potential witnesses to talk to..."

"Surely you won't be busy 24/7," Matt notes. "Karen, come on. You'll find an hour to waste on a call to your best friend who misses you a lot."

"Keep talking like that and I might reconsider." She sighs. "Time I'll have, I'm more concerned with other factors."

"Like what? Wooing your prince?"

"Maybe the wifi will be bad." Matt must make an interesting face upon hearing that, because he hears Karen shift in her chair. "What? What did I say?"

Crap. Kirsten's right, he really does lead with his face. The fact that he doesn't know how expressive he is doesn't help. "The wifi might be bad."

"What?" Karen's still confused, it's hilarious. "It might."

"Karen," Matt says slowly, "you're going to the most technologically advanced country in the world. Some things might be bad and you might not like them. The food. The colour of municipal buses. The flora. But I can promise you, the wifi won't be bad."

He starts laughing out loud when Karen groans. From the sound that follows he assumes she banged her head on the desk. "I'm going to make a fool out of myself," she laments. "I'm going to make a gaffe and, knowing my luck, everyone will see it, and T'Shan will realise that I'm an idiot and he'll nope out of any association with me."

"You're not an idiot," Matt says, "but T'Shan will prove himself to be one if he breaks up with you."

"Technically we're not dating."

"His loss, then." He hopes he made her smile. "You really like him, don't you?"

"Yeah," she says and her tone of voice is warm and fond. "I do."

There was a time when Karen had a crush on him. Before--before the pills, and then for a brief time after the pills but before Kirsten, she had a crush on him. Perhaps she even thought she was in love with him. He never knew if she got over that. Her heart didn't race around him anymore, true, but that might have meant that she simply grew accustomed to her crush. That her being in love simply became a second nature for her, something so fundamental that her body didn't even pick it up as an anomaly anymore.

He used to be that way around Foggy, once.

It's good to know for sure that Karen is over her crush, he decides. She's his friend, his best friend, and he loves her. She deserves to be happy.

"I'm glad," Matt says and he really, really is.

 

**33.**

The dealer is moaning softly on the pavement, lying face-down in the gutter. Matt rolls his eyes and plucks the knife from his side. The wounds isn't deep or even particularly big — the knife is small, its blade short — but it's there and it's bleeding, and after all these years of getting beaten up and stabbed and shot at, he can pretty accurately predict what needs stitches and what doesn't. This? Stitches, definitely.

"I told you to drop the knife," Matt murmurs. The dealer moans some more.

Matt stays close to him until he hears the police sirens. They'll take it from here, the people from Brett's precinct — Brett was a great captain, he inspired his people in a way his predecessor couldn't, and he attracted the good ones — so Matt decides it's time to go.

Stitches await.

He takes to the roofs. He crosses them one by one, two, three, four buildings, before dropping onto the fire escape of the one he was headed towards. He's not sure how late it is — it's not like he carries a watch with him — but she can't fault him for coming. She told him to, in no unnecessary terms. She told him she'd patch him up.

And, well. Claire was on call tonight.

He knocks on the living room window — the bedroom is off limits, that's the deal — then raps on it when he gets no response. Still nothing. Shit. He should have called, he should have called, what if she's not in? Maybe she's out on a date or staying over with a guy, he can't hear her heartbeat inside, that blow he took to the head must have been worse than he thought--

"For fuck's sake, Murdock, it's three in the morning," Marci grumbles as she opens the living room window for him. No breaking in, even though he could — that's the second rule. "What the hell?"

"I need stitches."

"I'm not a fucking night nurse," she tells him, but she steps back and lets him inside. He slides in and lands on the floor with less grace than he'd like. Ah, well. It's not like Marci hasn't seen him at his lowest. "You have Claire for that."

"Claire has a night shift tonight."

"Just my luck."

Marci goes off to her bathroom to bring the first aid kit while Matt heads to the kitchen and seats himself on one of her dining room chairs. He rests his forehead against the back of the chair and sighs. Yup. The blow to the head was definitely worse than anticipated.

"Where do you need those stitches?" Matt unzips and takes off the upper part of his armour, and twists so that Marci can see the cut in his side. "It's not so bad," she says after she inspects the cut. "One or two stitches will be enough."

She cleans the wound, then she takes a needle and the surgical threat and pierces his skin. He hisses. "Claire's gentler."

"Need I remind you that only one of us went to med school?" Marci asks sweetly. "Furthermore, keep pissing me off and I'll show you how much damage I can do. Unlike Claire I never took the Hippocratic oath."

"I love your stitches, Marce. Your stitches are amazing."

"You bet they are."

And the kicker is, they actually _are_. For all that Marci grumbles about being a lawyer, not a nurse, about hating doing this, she's good at it. She's a natural and the wounds stitched by her always leave minimal scarring. Marci might not have Claire's extensive knowledge, but on a technical level? She's flawless.

"Marci?" She hums to prompt him to speak. "Am I making the same mistakes as _then_?"

"Definitely not, you're making brand new mistakes every fucking day," she says, then sighs. "What were you even doing tonight?"

"Busted a meeting of a drug ring. Brett's men caught a dealer."

"Just one?"

Matt shrugs and Marci hisses at him to keep still. "The other two are waiting for them in another alley."

"How gracious of you," she chuckles. "One to ten?"

"Eleven, my head's killing me."

" _Matt_ ," she says warningly.

"Five. I'm fine."

"Okay." She nods. "What about that headache? You hit your head?"

"No," Matt says, "but someone did try to bash it off with a pipe."

"Fuck, Matt." She sighs. "You can't even let me be angry with you for ruining my night."

"Oh?" Matt asks. "You had plans?"

"See, this is how I know there's something wrong with your head." Here Marci pauses for a moment, finishes up the last stitch — three of them in total — and wraps a bandage around the wound. "You can't even tell that there's someone in my bedroom."

Matt freezes. "You have someone over? Marce, but what if they--"

"Should have thought about it before you came crashing here."

Matt scrambles to his feet. "They can't see me here," he says, dropping his voice. "They can't know, no one can know--"

"No one can know you're Daredevil?" Marci asks. She crosses her arms over her chest. "You mean no one besides Kirsten, Karen and me? And Jack? And all of the Avengers? Luke, Jessica, Danny? At least three villains? Your secret identity is shit, not a secret, Matt."

She might have a point. He's not about to admit that. "Marci..."

"Chill, Murdock," she says. "He already knows."

Matt stares at her. He can't see her, but it still counts as staring. "What do you mean 'he already knows'?"

Marci sucks in a breath and is about to answer, when her bedroom door creaks and someone emerges from the room. "Marci? You okay?"

Matt's jaw drops when he hears that voice. "Yeah, we're fine," Marci says. "Just a few stitches."

"Oh, okay, that's good." There's a rustling sound, like clothes being put on quickly. "I should go, before they figure out that I've snuck out. If they do, Stark will never let it go."

"Sure thing." Marci points at a bread basket on her kitchen counter. "There's a bagel if you want."

"I'd love one, actually. Oh, and hi, Matt."

"Hi, Steve," Matt answers weakly.

Steve grabs the bagel Marci mentioned, kisses Marci on the cheek, waves at Matt — Matt doesn't wave back — then heads towards Marci's front door and out of her apartment. He makes it look like the most normal thing in the world, he's so casual about it, it's almost as if he's been sneaking out of Marci's apartment for a long time.

"So," Matt says, "that happened."

"It sure did."

Matt shakes his head. "It's not ethical. He's out client. You shouldn't be dating our client."

"Please." Marci waves her hand. "We're not dating. It's not dating. We just sometimes meet up to have wild and bed-breaking sex."

"Wait. Steve Rogers is your booty call?"

"He sure is. With that booty? _Christ._ It's even better than yours." Matt's convinced Marci grins when he makes a gagging sound. "God bless America."

"I'm not sure if I'm horrified, impressed, or disgusted."

"I definitely know what I am. _Satisfied._ "

He ends up throwing up on Marci's floor. It's most likely the fault of being dealt a pipe to the head, but he likes to think that it was at least partially prompted by the images Marci's put in his brain.

 

**34.**

Karen does call from Wakanda.

"She's huddled on the floor and all the blinds in the room are closed. She's flailing her hands wildly, and it kind of looks like she's crying. Her face is all red," Kirsten narrates the Skype picture for him. "Now it looks like she's choking, but no sound emerges."

"Is she having a seizure?" Matt asks.

"You know, I'm starting to think that she might."

"I'm--fine," Karen says finally.

"You don't actually sound like you're fine," Matt notes.

"Oh God," Karen moans. "I'm not fine."

"She's not fine," Matt tells Kirsten, who nods empathically.

"I'm never going to leave this room," Karen says. "I can't. I'm trapped here, forever. The investigation team will go back to the Hague and I'll still be here, unable to leave. I'll never see you again in person. I'm going to die here, all alone."

"Karen," Kirsten says, concerned, "what happened?"

"They're all waiting outside. They swarmed the hotel in the morning and now they're camping outside all the entrances. Vultures. Bloodthirsty vultures."

"I assume you don't mean actual vultures."

"Paparazzi," Karen spits the word out like a curse.

Matt frowns and turns to Kirsten, who shrugs, lost as well. "Karen," Matt asks, "why are there paparazzi in front of your hotel?"

Karen swallows. "T'Shan invited me for dinner, yesterday."

"Okay...?"

"He said it was a little thing, you know, nothing to worry about. So I put on a dress, he came to pick me up. In the car he tells me it's a family dinner, and that everyone's excited to meet me. 'A family dinner', I wondered. As in 'meet the parents' type of dinner? Well, okay, I thought, because I'm an idiot."

"You're not an idiot, Karen."

"I kind of am, because I should have realised what day it was. But I amm and idiot and I didn't, and so when we pulled up in front of the _royal palace_ , I didn't expect the sea of paparazzi waiting there to capture everyone who's been invited." Karen takes a breath. "It was Princess Shuri's birthday, Matt, T'Shan took me to the official palace event for Princess Shuri's birthday."

"And it was horrible?

"I shook my head," Karen tells him. "It was actually kind of nice, T'Challa is a smart and charming man — he told me to pass his greetings to you, by the way — and Queen Ramonda is the sweetest woman in the world. Okay, fine, I'm pretty sure Princess Shuri hates my guts and has already sent her secret service people to kill me, but everyone else was so nice."

"So what's the problem?"

"They took a picture of me," Karen whispers. "When I got out of the car, someone took a picture of me, and as of today, it's everywhere on the news in here. My face is _everywhere_ , and there's about fifty paparazzi camping out outside the hotel, waiting for me to leave. Which means I can't. I'm trapped here."

"Well, look on the bright side," Kirsten tells her, trying very hard to sound serious. "You're in a hotel, which means you have a room and an unlimited access to food. And I'm sure T'Shan will get you out and will not let Princess Shuri assassinate you."

"Plus the wifi's not bad," Matt throws in.

He's met with stone silence. He raises his brows and looks towards Kirsten. "So," Kirsten tells him, "she just hung up."

"That was interesting."

"He must like her, if he took her to a family function already." Kirsten taps his shoulder. "Move."

He moves his chair back and allows Kirsten the access to the keyboard. She starts typing and then swipes her fingers across the screen a few times.

"She wasn't wrong about the picture being everywhere," she says after a minute. "Every major Wakandan site has it on front page. 'The prince's corn-haired beauty'."

"What?"

Kirsten shrugs. "Google Translate isn't very good with Wakandan." She scrolls some more. "It's a beautiful picture."

"Tell me."

"She has her hair in a high bun, with some strands falling down around her face. It was sunny when they arrived at the palace and her hair looked really yellow in that light, I guess that's why they're calling her corn-haired." Kirsten licks her lips. "She's wearing a long dress, not floor-length, but still long. It's very blue, cornflower blue, it brings out her eyes."

Matt goes over that description in his mind. "I don't remember what colour cornflowers are."

"They're a bit lighter than sapphires." Matt shakes his head. "Uh, forget-me-nots?" Okay. Okay, forget-me-nots he remembers. He nods. "Similar to that, just a bit darker. She looks good in it, it suits her."

"What about you?" Matt asks, curious. "Do you look good in cornflower blue?"

"Sure I do, baby," Kirsten says. "I look good in everything."

She continues telling him about the pictures and describing various other guests that graced Princess Shuri's birthday party with their presence. Matt only listens to her with half an ear; he wonders what exactly does cornflower blue look like. He has some approximate mental image — a bit darker than forget-me-nots, okay — but he's sure it's off the mark. He wonders what Karen looked like at the ball, did she turn everyone's heads around. He wonders what Kirsten would look like in Karen's dress — she had completely different colouring than Karen, was dark and tanned where Karen was blond and pale — and he wonders what Kirsten looks like in general.

 

**35.**

"You won't believe who visited us today and then was too much of a coward to stick around," Marci says the moment he enters the office.

"I probably won't, so I'm not even going to try guessing," he tells her, though he has a pretty good idea who that was, if only going by the vengeful glee in Marci's tone.

"Nelson."

Jackpot. Matt rests his cane against the wall next to the door, then takes off his jacket and takes it to his office, where he hangs it on the back of his chair. "Did he want something?"

"I think it was more of a trip down the memory lane," Marci says. "You know, he was honestly surprised to see me here, in _my_ office. It was almost insulting."

"Why wouldn't he be surprised? You and I have never liked each other."

"Lies and slander, Murdock. You were my distinguished competitor at Columbia, I always liked you."

"Academic respect does not equal liking someone," Matt points out. "You were extremely mean to me from the moment you met me."

"Are you suggesting I'm not extremely mean to you anymore?" Marci asks. She presses a hand to her chest as if wounded. "How dare you! Of course I'm extremely mean to you, that's how I show affection."

"Wow, Marci, you sure must love me a lot, then," Matt deadpans.

"I do," she says, dropping the teasing tone. She's both serious and honest. "I do, Matt."

He doesn't know what to say to that, so he clears his throat. "They've pushed the Brendan hearing to next Thursday."

"Good. That means they've got nothing on him."

Matt nods. "Hey, Marce?"

"Mhm?"

"Next Sunday, Priest's fundraising party?"

Marci turns immediately suspicious. "What about it?"

"You're not attending, right?"

"Of course not. Unlike a certain someone," she pauses, most likely to glare at him, "I value my time. Why?"

"Could you look after Jack? Kate's going to Hamptons with Susan and her fiancé, so we don't have a babysitter for the night."

Marci lets out a long and pained sigh. "Fine," she says eventually. "I'll take the whelp. But he's staying with me for the night, I'm not coming over to yours."

"Fair enough." Matt smiles. "Thanks, Marce."

"Yeah, yeah." Marci waves her hand. "Find us a new secretary, Murdock, then we can talk about being even."

 

**36.**

The thing with fear is twofold.

Fear cannot be without hope.

But hope cannot be without fear either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote that Jack refers and Vision told him is by Baruch Spinoza.


End file.
